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“In the Suller.” 





# 

THE BOYS 


BRIMSTONE COURT. 


/ 2 . 

BY 

ELIZABETH STUART PHELPS. 

-uJo^cC, SJR^JUcU. 

•> ® "rn«A <3 


(and other stories.) 




BOSTON: 

D. LOTHROP AND COMPANY. 

FRANKLIN ST., CORNER OF HAWLEY. 


Co V'i & v 


08 - 348 4*5 



COPYRIGHT BY 

D. LOTHROP & CO. 
1879 . 


THE BOYS OF BRIMSTONE COURT. 


F ETH, thin I’ll not desave yez ! 

It’s meself as began it. 

There’s a chap I know, his name’s O’Flaherty, says 
he done it ; an’ there’s Jeemes O’Brien an’ Crooked 
Pat told the woman to the Mission it was thimsilves, 
bein’ as Pat see it in the pepper wich he went into 
the trade for a man with the one eye and a tan pup. 
So thin ! Afther he see it in the pepper he went to 
the Mission woman, with his brag thin. Well, thin ! 
I just stipped to one side and let him brag. What’s 
the odds, marm? Seein’ he’s crooked. Me own 
name’s Pat. It’s a family name. But it’s meself is 
sthraight. 

An’ now she ain’t there, but whin I says she , I 
don’t mane her to the Mission by a long shot. It’s 
the little gurrl I manes. 


The Boys of Brimstone Court . 

Well, thin 1 Ye see we lives here ; me, and Jeemes 
and all us boys. Hey ? Noa /doant know why they 
calle’ it Brimstone Coort. I live over there beyont 
the pawn-shops, an’ Jeemses to the graggry comer, 
barrin crooked Pat’s a stip or two agin it, an’ the small 
little gurrl’s beyont the whole. 

I’ve got nothin’ agin Giddy O’Flaherty, meself, an’ 

. it’s me an’ Giddy was walkin’ on the stilts. Giddy’s 
feyther it is sure as made the stilts. He’s rich, Gid- 
dy’s feyther. He keeps a norgan an’ a monkey up to 
Thremont Street bein’ as he lost his arrum to the war. 

I like that monkey. He takes it very kind when 
you pinches his tail. 

But it wasn’t the stilts, neither, as began it. It was 
the punch in the windy. It’s meself first see the 
punch. Folks ses the old man punched it bein’ tipsy 
— it’s the little gurrPs old man I manes. I never 
see him. I never see nobody belongin’ to the little 
gurrl nelse ye counts the woman as went out to pick 
the rags ache day and lift her to her lane. Me an’ 
Giddy it was, and Jeemes, and the whole shebang of 
’em, was beyont the windy, and it was a foine day. 
An’ I ses : 

“ Whisht there, Giddy ! ” 

And Giddy ses : 

“ Whisht yerself ! ” 


The Boys of Brimstone Court. 

An’ ses I : 

“ It’s a little noise I heare behint the windy ! ” 

An’ ses Giddy : 

“ Well thin!” 

And ses I : 

“ Hand over them stilts — half a jiffy, thin ! ” 

An’ so Giddy he handed them over like a gintle- 
man but for the pig an’ two pups as ran betwa^f b's 
legs to knock him down, an’ meself got upon the 
stilts and walked straight to the punch in the windy 
and peeped in. 

It was in the suller, marm, the room was, with the 
thrap-door to let yez in and out, an’ the windy was 
low-like and narry, like that one yander. Gorry ! 
Warn’t it hot down there ! An’ dark, you bet. For 
ye see it was of a July day, an’ blazin hot. But I 
puts me face to the punch in the windy and looks 
down. An’ I couldn’t see very plain. But by-and-by 
I begins to see, and I give the stilts a lickitacut, an’ 
down I come. 

“ Well, thin ! ” ses Giddy. 

“ Is it a murdher ye sees ? ” ses Jeemes. 

But I ses : “ Whisht, boys ! Whisht, there. It's a 
small little gurrl l ” 

So we picks up the stilts and walks away. But that 


The Boys of Brimstone Court. 

began it. It’s purty small, she was, marm, and 
white-like ; an’ she was layin’ onto a bed, that still, I’d 
have taken her for a did one only for the noise she 
made. It wasn’t much of a noise, marm, and 
sounded weakly. She was layin’ by her lane below 
the windy. Nobody was nigh. 

I felt kinder sorry meself for to think on her. An’ 
Jeemes he ses he called it a dern pity. It’s Giddy 
O’Flaherty didn’t say nothin’ at arl at arl, but invited 
us up to Thremont Street to hear the norgan an’ 
pinch the monk. Feth thin ! an’ we all went, an’ he 
give us a pinch apiece, an’ we all feels betther. 

It’s yerself, marm, remembers the flooer shtore be- 
yont the norgan as Giddy’s feyther had to hold in the 
monkey for grabbin at the flooers of a mornin’. 
’Rested him fur it once, they did. But the Jedge ses 
he couldn’t pass sentence onto a monk. But Giddy’s 
feyther he give that monk one lickin’ fur disgracin’ of 
the family by haulin’ it acrosst the P’lice Court ! An’ 
now, marm, he wouldn’t shmell a flooer, that monkey 
wouldn’t, not for no consederation. 

Well, thin ! So this day I tells ye of, bein’ a foine 
day, an’ not tin o’clock of the mornin’ as I come by, 
afther me own pinch of the monkey which was danc- 
in’ to a Hymn-tune by misthake fur the Mulligan 



p* 


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F> ii K.H \U. 

INSTREiii 

— 


HOWAI 


txis * u-l ^ •*' 


Pat, 











































































. 















The Boys of Brimstone Court. 

Guards, I see the flooer man a breshin’ out with his 
broom agin the store door — hapes of ivergrane, 
marm, with a whishp of a flooer betwane. 

So thin he ses, “ Yis go long wid ye an’ ax me no 
questions which is wuss nor a monkey ” — an’ I picks 
up the granes an’ the whisph of a flooer along wid 
’em, an’ rins back home melane. But Jeemes an’ 
Crooked Pat and O’ Flaherty they tags afther, an’ so 
we comes rinning, marm, to Brimstone Coort, an’ purty 
short o’ wind for a hot day as it was ! An’ we comes 
to the small little gurrl’s. An’ we sees the punch in 
the windy just as we laves it. An’ we hears the 
weakly little noise. 

So thin ! it’s meself takes the stilts wich I could 
see quite plain widout, only for bein’ polite to Giddy 
seein’ as he gave me an extra pinch to the monk — 
and I goes to the punch in the windy, an’ dhrops in 
the ivergranes as still as ye plase. An’ thin I dhrops 
the whishp of a flooer quite soft-like. And then I ses : 

“Whisht!” 

An’ Giddy ses : 

“Whisht thin!” 

An’ then we cut an’ run. 

So thin nixt day as it was a foine day agin at tin 
o’clock of the mornin’, and I tought I’d happen round 
to the flooer-man’s meself. An’ there was Giddy an’ 


The Boys of Brimstone Court. 

Jeemes an’ Pat an’ the lot of ’em before me. But he 
hadn’t breshed out the store. So by-and-by he began 
to bresh. But there wasn’t granes enough to go 
round. And he ses : 

“ What now thin ? Be off wid ye ! ” 

An’ I ses : 

“ It’s for a small little gurrl we wants ’em, sir. 
She lays sick into a suller below a punch in a 
windy. We sthichs the whishp of a flooer in.” 

So thin he ses : 

“ What?” 

An’ I ses : 

“We sthichs the granes and flooers down the 
windy, sir. She lays by her lane. We thought she’d 
like ’em,” ses I. 

“ Like ’em ? ” ses he. “ How’s boys the like of 
yez fit to know what a delicate little sick gurrl is in a 
way to want ? ” 

Ses I : 

“ I don’t know, sir.” 

I felt ashamed meself, an’ I noticed it of Jeemes 
he hung his head. But the flooer-man he looked up 
and began to bresh. I see him winkin’ it was so dusty 
as he breshed. Then ses he : 

“ Here ! an’ off wid yer ! ” 

An’, marm, he gives us a live flooer, that man did — 


The Boys of Brimstone Court. 


one to ache, beyont the did ones and the granes of 
the dust-hape. Jeemes he got a live tulip of a yaller 
color. Giddy O’Flaherty he got a rid flooer. An’ 
Pat’s she held up her head like a leddy, but I don’t 
know her name. But the one of me own was white, 
an’ hung to a string this way, marm, like as it was lit- 
tle sleigh-bells. So thin ! we all rins to the little 
gurrl’s an’ dhrops ’em down. Fust the toolip seein’ 
it was yaller an’ Jeemes was in a hurry. The rid one 
he went nixt. But the one that looked like a leddy, 
we put her along-side of the white flooer wid the 
sleigh-bells close betwane. 

So that was the day I put me face to the windy, an’ 
ses I : 

“ What’s yer name ? ” 

And ses she : 

“ Me name is Gerty.” 

But she spoke up so weakly I couldn’t scarcely 
see her. 

“Well,” ses I, “me own name’s Pathrick.” 

But thin, I said no more. Only she ses she liked 
the live flooers betther nor the did ones an’ how they 
was all very cool, she ses, an’ the ivergrane moreover. 
An’ she ses ’t was purty hot down there. 

Well, thin ! It’s ivery day we wint, marm, for a 
long spell, to that small little gurrl’s with live flooers, 


The Boys of Brimstone Court. 


and did flooers, an’ granes, for the flooer-man was most 
oncommon willin’. But once he sint her a limmon as 
she sed she hadn’t nobody to squeeze it, an’ me an’ 
Giddy we rolled on it acrost the sidewalk till it was 
squash as jelly, marm, an’ she most thankful. But 
she didn’t never talk much, only to groan a little. 
But she ses her name was Gerty. 

One day you bet we had larks. Giddy goes up to 
the windy, an’ ses he : 

“ Hev ye ever seed a monkey ? ” 

Ses she : 

“ No, I never seen one. Is it good to eat ? ” ses 
she. “ I’ve laid here iver sence I could remember,” 
ses she. “ I hain’t seen nobody,” ses she. 

So Giddy he brings the monk an’ we put him up 
to the windy, and he looks in. But he made her a 
foine bow, an’ the little gurrl she laughed. I heern 
her. But now you bet whin we tried to make that 
monkey throw her down a flooer, he cut up like mad. 
We tries him with the live ones, an’ the did ones, an’ 
the granes an’ all ways, him stickin’ hid an’ shoolders 
trough the punch in the windy like to fall on her an’ 
makin’ faces to avide the granes. But Pat he giv him 
a pinny the pepper man loaned him, an’ he trows the 
pinny down polite as a p’lice-man. But the little 
gurrl she laughs agin. Pat heern her. 


The Boys of Brimstone Court. 


So thin ! Marm, I guess that’s mostly all. Ye — ye 
don’t want to#hear no more, do yez ? It’s thejgranes 
we tuk, an’ the flooers every day to trow ’em to the 
little gurrl. One day — one day she — well, Giddy 
sed she groaned a sight. But I didn’t hear her very 
plain. I trew in me flooer and cut an’ run. I’d — 
I’d rether not. It sounded so. I wouldn’t had cared 
so much if it was a boy. 

But nobody come nigh her. An’ the woman wint 
to pick the rags ache day. Nobody come nigh her 
only us boys. Nelse you count the monkey. An’ it 
grew awful hot. 

One day — one day — one — day ye see — well we 
trew in our flooers, me an’ Giddy an’ the rist, an’ she 
niver said no word as to how she liked ’em — how 
she — how — well marm ! She’d been used to say : 

“ This one’s cool.” Or mebbe, “ That one’s rid or 
purty.” Or mebbe just as how her name was Gerty, 
and what was our names ? She ses, an’ how she 
thanked us all, an’ to ax if it was hot outside like it 
was below there. An’ once she axed fur the monkey 
an’ if the monkey hed a name. So Giddy tells her 
yez, it was Thomas Jefferson an’ she took it very kind. 
An’ she’d grew to watch for us. An’ we’d grew to 
watch for her. An’ ivery day come rain or shine we 


The Boys of Brimstone Court. 

was to the punch in the windy, me an’ the flooers and 
the monkey mebbe an’ the other boys. 

But this day I tells you of, she — she — well — she 
niver so much as made a little groon below the windy. 
An’ we trew in the flooers. But nobody heerd 
nothin’. 

An’ ses Giddy : 

“ Git the stilts an’ peek ! ” 

So Giddy he got the stilts. But we pitched cop- 
pers to see which should peek. For we was kind of 
scared, an’ it come heads so it was onto me, an’ I got 
upon the stilts an’ peeked. 

I put me face into the windy, marm, an’ the boys 
they stood around. An’ we all kep still. 

Ses Jeemes : 

“ What do ye see thin, Pat ? ” 

Ses I : 

“ I see the room. It’s dark. It’s pipin’ hot,” ses 
I, “ an’ I most can see the bed below the windy.” 

“ What else ? ” ses Jeemes. 

But at first, marm, I couldn’t see nothin’ else. 
Then ses I, at last ses I : 

“ I can most see the flooers and the granes.” 

“ Can ye most see the little gurrl ? ” ses Pat. 

An’ ses I : 

“ I can most see the small little gurrl. I can’t 


The Boys of Brimstone Court. 

quite see her, boys. She’s got the flooers acrosst her 
two hands. I can most see her hands. She lays 
very still. She niver moves,” ses I. 

Thin, marm — I — in a minute, marm, I see her 
very plain. But I ses nothin’ to the boys. I got off 
the stilts an’ ses : 

“ Whisht now ! ” 

An’ they follows me askin’ no questions, and we 
walked away into a place I know behind a ash-hape, 
an’ there we all sits down. An’ ses 1 : 

“ Boys,” ses I, I ses, “ Boys ” — I ses, “ Look 
here boys ” — 

But ses Giddy : 

“ Is she did ? ” 

An’ ses I : 

“ Giddy O’Flaherty ye’ve spoke the truth, I’ll not 
desave yez ! The small little gurrl is did.” 

But we none of us ses nothin’ to nobody, only 
Jeemes begins to ax what will we do wid our flooers 
the morrow. But Giddy he give him a cuff acrosst the 
the head that hard, Giddy himself commenced to cry. 
But he ses he was cryin’ for the cuff. He ses he 
wasn’t cryin’ for the small little gurrl — the poor — 
little — he — ses — 

“ Boys don’t — boys don’t cry ioxgurrlsl” ses Giddy. 

So thin to-morrow it come tin o’clock of the morn- 


The Boys of Brimstone Court. 

in’. An’ it was a foine day. An’ we all wint to the 
flooer-man for not knowin’ nothin’ else to do, marm, 
me an’ Giddy an’ the rist. But we niver tould him. 
So we come away. But the flooers he giv us that day 
was all white flooers. 

So thin we come back with the flooers. But when 
we come to the windy we see folks cornin’ up the 
thrap-door from the suller-way. There wasn’t many 
folks. There was the tipsy ould man, an’ the woman 
as wint for the rags, and jist a Praste an’ no more at 
arl, barrin’ the small little gurrl betwane ’em an’ 
kivered with a shawl. Us boy’s did flooers was 
acrosst the did little gurrl. So we jist giv the live 
ones same as usual, for we thought we’d better. 

Giddy he ses she’d miss ’em if we didn’t. So we 
put ’em down. An’ we all follered on behind. An’ 
Giddy O’Flaherty’s feyther he come too, an’ the 
flooer man ashed heern tell of it. An’ Tomas Jeffer- 
son, too. But he behaved oncommon well. An’ no- 
body — nobody — Oh, dear me, marm ! Nobody 
pinched his tail, marm, — for we — we — well, we had 
so fur to walk ye sees, an’ we was okkypied. It begun 
to grew cooler as we walked. The Praste he un- 
kivered her face when we’d got a piece beyond folks’s 
sight. The grave was ready, marm. And they put 


The Boys of Brimstone Court. 


her in. I thought it seemed very cool for her. An’ 
there was grass an’ trees an’ things around. 

But we laid the live flowers onto her, an’ the last 
of the granes, an’ I thought she looked most oncom- 
mon comfortable meself. So nobody was scared but 
the monkey, an’ thin we come away. An’ that’s all. 
There ain’t no more to tell about the small little 
gurrl. That’s all there be. 


MRS. MIFFETS CAMEL’S HAIR SHAWL. 


M R. MIFFET always called his wife “ Ma Mif- 
fet,” and she always called him “ Pa Miffet.” 
So, after a while, all the neighbors and friends fell 
into the same way, and each one of them said “ Ma 
Miffet ” and “ Pa Miffet ” as naturally as could be. 

The Miffets had three children, two girls and one 
boy, and their names were Matilda Mary, next Lydia 
Lucy, then Jeremiah Julius. Ma Miffet had named 
them all, because, as she said, “ They might not like 
their first name, and so they should each have a sec- 
ond name to choose from.” 

But when the children grew up, they were so well- 
pleased with their names that they would not have 
them shortened in the least, and Jeremiah Julius 
even wanted to add James to his and be called Jere- 
miah Julius James. But Pa Miffet objected to this, 


Mrs. Miffet' s Camel's Hair Shawl. 


because it took so long to pronounce when he was in 
a hurry, so Jeremiah Julius was forced to be content 
without the James. 

One Sunday, as soon as they came home from 
church, the Miffets all began to talk of Mrs. Snap- 
per’s camel’s hair shawl, which she had just bought. 

Ma Miffet said it was just such a shawl as she 
would like if Pa Miffet could afford to get her one. 

Matilda Mary said that Mrs. Snapper’s cook had 
told the milkman, and the milkman had told their 
chambermaid, and their chambermaid had told her, that 
the shawl cost five hundred dollars. 

Lydia Lucy said that was more than a whole camel 
was worth, she thought. 

Jeremiah Julius said that it would be a good idea 
to buy a camel, and then they could get as many 
shawls as they wanted out of its hair. 

Pa Miffet was much pleased with this idea, and 
said he knew a man who owned a whole menagerie, 
who might sell a camel cheap. 

“ Besides,” said Pa Miffet, we might take the 
camel in the country with us this summer and use him 
to ride on, instead of getting a horse. That would 
be a real saving these hard times.” 

“Yes, indeed!” said Jeremiah Julius. “I have 
heard that camels eat very little, so perhaps it would 


Mrs. Miffet' s Camel's Hair Sha7vl. 

feed along the roadside and save the expense of buy- 
ing hay and oats.” 

“ But don’t they sometimes swallow bits of glass, 
and nails, and such things ? ” asked Ma Miffet, anx- 
iously. 

“ O no, Ma Miffet ! you are thinking of an os- 
trich,” said Lydia Lucy, who had studied Natural His- 
tory. 

“ O well ! I knew it was some kind of a long- necked 
thing — ostrich or camel, it don’t matter which,” said 
Ma Miffet. 

“ When will you go to see the man who owns the 
camel, Pa Miffet ? ” asked Matilda Mary. 

“ To-morrow,” replied Pa Miffet. “ If he wants to 
sell a camel cheap, I will buy one. You, Jeremiah 
Julius, will take the beast in the country and we will 
follow you next week.” 

“ Perhaps I had better ride on it and save my fare 
in the cars,” suggested Jeremiah Julius. 

“ Perhaps you could do that,” said Pa Miffet. 

“ Then couldn’t I go with him ? ” exclaimed Lydia 
Lucy. “ Two people can ride on a camel, I’m sure.” 

“Yes, so I’ve heard,” said Ma Miffet. “But 
won’t you be afraid when he gallops, my dear ? ” 

“ Oh, camels don’t gallop '' said Lydia Lucy. 

But Pa Miffet would not consent to let his daugh- 


Mrs. Miffet' s Camel's Hair Shawl. 

ter travel in that way, he said, so poor Lydia Lucy 
had to give it up. 

Two days afterward, the whole family were terrible 
excited by the appearance of Pa Miffet leading a 
camel into the dooryard. Ma Miffet ran to meet her 
husband and to take a good look at the camel, too. 

“ But where’s his trunk ? ” she asked at once. 

“ Ma ! camels don’t have trunks, only elephants 
do,” answered Lydia Lucy who remembered her Nat- 
ural History. 

“ Nonsense, child ! Why shouldn’t a camel have a 
trunk as well as an elephant ? Never mind, we can 
let him have a big carpet-bag and that will do just as 
well,” said Ma Miffet kindly. 

Well, the camel was put into the yard for that 
night, and early the next morning Jeremiah Julius 
came out dressed for a journey. He carried a small 
satchel in one hand and a lunch-basket in the other, 
and all the family followed him into the yard to see 
him start. 

“ But how can I get up on his back ? ” said poor 
Jeremiah Julius when he had kissed them all good- 
by and looked at the camel. 

“ I know ! ” said Ma Miffet. “ You must have the 
step-ladder, to be sure.” 


Mrs. Miffefs Camel's Hair Shawl. 

So Pa Miffet * brought out the step-ladder and 
rested it against the camel. 

“ Stop one moment ! ” said Ma Miffet. “ Let me 
get a rope and tie it to the camel’s tail so as to keep 
him still while you get on.” 

So Ma Miffet brought the rope, and Pa Miffet tied 
it fast to the camel’s tail. 

Then Jeremiah Julius mounted the step-ladder and 
threw a blanket over the camel’s back, while Matilda 
Mary stood on the lower step with his satchel and 
lunch-basket, ready to hand it up to him. 

But just at this moment the camel, w r ho was a little 
frightened, and was getting impatient besides, started 
violently and upset the ladder. Jeremiah Julius fell 
off headforemost, — so did Matilda Mary ; but Pa 
Miffet, who was holding the rope, began to pull it 
with all his might, Away went the poor camel, gal- 
loping out of the gate and dowm the street at a fu- 
rious pace, with Pa Miffet hanging on behind. He 
knocked down several children and one old woman, 
frightened two horses, and at last ran into a butcher’s 
stall where he was stopped. 

The butcher’s boy brushed off Pa Miffet’s clothes 
which were quite muddy, and then went with him to 
lead the camel home. But Jeremiah Julius had a 
bump on his forehead where he struck the ground 


Jeremiah julius starts. 











Mrs. Miffet' s Camel's Hair Shawl. 

when he fell, and Matilda Mary had set her nose a 
bleeding at the same time. So they concluded not to 
travel on the camel’s back after all. 

i( You see, Ma and Pa,” said Lydia Lucy who had 
studied Natural History, “the camel lives in the des- 
ert and of course he won’t go well here. You must 
take him where there is plenty of sand and no houses 
if you want to use him.” 

“But we don’t know of any such place near here, 
said Pa Miffet. 

“We might take him to the seashore, there is 
plenty of sand there,” said Ma Miffet. 

“ But it would cost so much,” objected Pa Miffet 
after he had considered a while. 

“ I’m sure I shall never dare to ride on him,” said 
Matilda Mary sorrowfully. 

Just then, Jeremiah Julius came in. “ Here is a 
letter from the man whose horse we frightened yes- 
terday,” he said. “ He wants you to pay him fifty 
dollars damages.” 

“ And the old woman who was knocked down says 
you must settle her doctor’s bill, Pa,” added Ma Mif- 
fet. 

“ And the butcher came here this morning to say 
that you had hurt his little girl and would have to pay 
him a round sum for that,” said Lydia Lucy. 


Mrs. Mijffefs CatneVs Hair Sha7vl. 

“ And the mud stains are not out of my clothes 
yet,” said Pa Miffet, disconsolately. 

“ And your coat is all torn, Pa,” said Ma Miffet. 

Well, the Miffets sold the camel the next day and 
paid all the bills for damages. 

But poor Ma Miffet didn’t get her camel’s hair 
shawl, which grieved her very much. 

However, one day, Lydia Lucy came home from 
school, where she was still studying Natural History, 
and exclaimed : 

“ Why, Ma, camel’s hair shawls are not made of 
camel’s hair at all ! They are made from the wool of 
the Cashmere goat, so our camel would never have 
been of any use ! ” 

“ Dear me ! ” said Ma Miffet and Pa Miffet both at 
once. “ Dear me ! what a good thing knowledge 


MISS JUNIPER’S WARD. 


I T was a wee, wee little cry that Miss Juniper heard, 
so wee that she was not sure that she had heard 
it at all. After listening for a moment, in a sleepy 
way, she came to the conclusion that it was Master 
Richard Juniper, her canary-bird, changing from one 
foot to the other and making his swing creak. “ And 
yet,” she thought as she composed herself to sleep 
again, “ it wasn’t hardly that either.” 

Miss Juniper’s room was the tiniest in a very tiny 
house. Her little bed was near the window, and the 
window was wide open, and it was very fortunate that 
this was all so, else she might have dropped off to 
sleep and never heard that little cry again ; but as it 
was, when it came floating in again, weak and pitiful, 
Miss Juniper sat up in bed and rubbed her eyes. 

“ Dicky, is that you ? ” she said, softly. 

Dicky had his head under his wing and was far 


Miss Juniper's Ward. 


away in the Land of Dreams, as his mistress could 
see in the moonlight ; so she knew it wasn’t him. 

“ Hark ! ” said Miss Juniper to herself. 

Again the wee cry came through the window ■— 
unmistakeably through the window now, and so faint 
that it hardly could get past the clustering rose- 
bushes ; but it brought Miss Juniper out of bed with 
a bounce which startled Dicky from his slumbers, and 
caused him to open his eyes and look around with an 
angry and disgusted expression. 

Hetty, — everybody called Miss Juniper “ Hetty,” — 
pulled on her shoes without her stockings, slipped on 
her dressing-gown, flung her shawl over her shoulders, 
and putting her hands on the window-sill, swung her- 
self out into the garden, crushing a beautiful pansy, 
and breaking down the St. John’s Lily, which had 
been the object of her tenderest solicitude for several 
weeks ; she did not even stop to conciliate Dicky. 

The moon was shining, — not with a broad glare, 
like the light of day, but softly and tenderly, silvering 
everything. Hetty looked over the door-step and 
little porch first — nothing there ! Then over the 
garden — nothing there ! She rubbed her eyes, and 
stared around; had it been some little wild bird 
talking in its sleep ? or a dissipated Chippy, making 
his excuse to Mrs. Chippy ? 


Miss Juniper's Ward. 


“ There !” said Miss Juniper to herself, as the 
little cry was repeated. “ I knew I heard it ! ” 

Running down the narrow path to the street fence 
she found it. 

It was a small bundle wrapped in coarse blue cloth, 
and laid on the top of a stout rose-bush, which bore 
it up bravely, — indeed seeming to peer at it curiously 
as if it knew it had never borne such a blossom 
before. 

Little Miss Juniper took it up, unconsciously 
scratching her hands as she did so, for the rosebush 
was loth to part with its flower. 

Some people liked to call this little woman, “ Old 
Maid Juniper,” and “ Schoolma’am Juniper.” Could 
they have seen her now ! 

“ Dear, dear little baby,” she whispered, “ where 
did you come from ? ” 

The baby, for answer, gave another wee cry, and 
grasped frantically with a quick, tiny hand at Miss 
Hetty’s front hair, which was quite gray and looked 
very shining and pretty in the moonlight. 

Miss Hetty hurried back to her room, climbing in 
at the window, baby and all, as she had climbed out, 
quite indifferent to the condition of her St. John’s 
Lily, though she saw the crown of buds snapped off 
and lying in the path. 


Miss Juniper’s Ward. 


She softly placed her prize on the bed, pulled down 
the window that the night air should not blow upon 
it, and locked it, so no one should get in and steal 
the child, — as though it were likely anyone would 
come back after the little waif ! 

Then she hurried out and knocked at the door of 
another room on the opposite side of the hall. 

“ Aunt Dorcas ! Aunt Dorcas ! ” 

“ For Pity’s sake ! ” said a fat voice anxiously. 
“What is it, Hetty Juniper? Is the house a-fire? 
I’ve heard you this half hour.” 

“ Yes, and get right up, Aunt Dorcas. I just want 
you to come and see what I’ve found.” 

“ Found ! ” the fat voice repeated. “ Isn’t it the 
dead of night ? What could you find in the dead of 
night?” 

“ Aunt Dorcas, please do hurry just a little ! ” said 
Miss Hetty through the keyhole. 

“ I am as fast as ever I can,” said the fat voice 
approaching the door, and the next moment a small, 
fat figure filled up the doorway. 

Miss Juniper led her into her own room up to the 
bedside, where the blue bundle lay remarkably quiet, 
the warm air of the room having caused it to drop 
off to sleep. 

“This — what’s this?” said Aunt Dorcas sniffing. 
“ It smells like a Chinaman’s blouse.” 


Miss Juniper's Ward. 

But while she was fumbling around after matches, 
Aunt Dorcas was investigating, and, in a second 
cried out delightedly : “ Why ! It’s a baby ! Hetty 
Juniper, as true as I live, it’s a baby ! ” 

Hetty gave a soft laugh and went on lighting her 
candle. She brought it to the bedside. Aunt Dorcas 
stooping low, suddenly rose shutting both hands with 
a funny horrified little laugh as she exclaimed, “ Hetty 
Juniper / It's a Chinese baby l" 

Miss Hetty stooped over and looked — then she 
and Aunt Dorcas stood and gazed at each other. 

“ A Chinese baby I ” ejaculated the latter. 

“ It is ! ” gasped Hetty. “ A Chinese baby ! ” 

How they might have made up their minds had 
they waited until morning it is hard to tell ; there 
are Orphan Asylums, and Almshouses, in San Fran- 
cisco, and a Chinese baby is not desirable ; but while 
they stood looking, the wee little innocent opened its 
almond-shaped eyes, and gave a small, pitiful wail, 
grasping frantically at the same time at the candle, 
with its impetuous little hands. 

“ I don’t care if ’tis ! ” said Hetty, putting the can- 
dle-stick down. “ I love it ! ” 

“ Do you ? ” said Aunt Dorcas, a soft light coming 
into her eyes. “ Well — so do I ! Let’s keep it.” 

Said Hetty, “ I will if you will.” 


Miss Juniper's Ward. 

“And I will if you will,” said Aunt Dorcas. And it 
was a compact. 

There was no more sleep that night. Miss Hetty 



Ahoy Choy. 


built a fire in the kitchen, and they brought the baby 
out there, took off its Chinese clothes which, as Aunt 
Dorcas said, “ had all sorts of Chines-y smells ! ” and 
gave it a warm bath, and some warm milk. Then 


Miss Juniper's Ward. 


Aunt Dorcas brought out some antiquated baby 
clothes, yellow with age, treasured through long years 
for some little sake of which Miss Hetty had never 
heard. 

The little rose-bush baby girl, — it was a little girl 
of course, — was a plump and healthy little blossom. 
She was perhaps three months old. Comfortably 
dressed in “Melican” clothes she laughed and 
crowed, and seemed very like “ Melican ” babies and 
delighted her two Melican mothers till morning. 

The next day — it was Saturday, so Miss Juniper’s 
school did not “keep” — Hung Goon, the good- 
natured old Coolie who served them with vegetables 
was invited in to see the new inmate. 

“ What for you take girl ? ” he said. “ Girl no 
good. Bine by glow up, get married, go way. Take 
boy ! Boy he muchee good.” 

“ You tell me nice name for girl,” said Miss Juni- 
per. She had decided her ward better have a Chi- 
nese name. A “ Melican ” name was no use with 
those soft oblique eyes. 

After considerable jabbering in his native tongue, 
Hung Goon suggested “Ahoy Choy.” The name 
took their fancy, and “Ahoy Choy” the baby was 
accordingly called. 

Of course the neighbors had to “ have their say ” 


Miss yuniper's Ward. 


about all this ; but they were the most wrought upon 
by the name the baby had received. 

“ People say this is a free country and I ’spose it 
is,” said Mrs. Drinkwater ; “ and if them Junipers want 
to take a Digger Injun baby there’s no law to stop it. 
But I do think the ministers of the Gospel orter in- 
terfere when people as pretends to be Christians 
gives a child sech a name, sech a abominable idola- 
trous heathenish hideous wicked name as they’ve 
given that child — Ahoy Choy ! Why didn’t they give 
the little heathen some good Scripture name, — it 
would have been something towards converting it! 
It ’ll be twice as hard with that name ! ” 

But Ahoy Choy grew and flourished, and was as 
happy as any little girl in San Francisco, and such 
dear company and comfort to Miss Hetty and Aunt 
Dorcas. 

When she was six years old, Miss Juniper took 
her to school ; she was an apt, obedient and pains- 
taking little scholar, but alas — one day it so hap- 
pened that Miss Biddy Killigan stood at the head of 
the spelling-class, Ahoy Choy being fourth, and that 
Miss Juniper gave out the word “box.” 

“ B-double o-x.” spelt Biddy in a very vivacious, 
confident tone which would have imposed upon a less 
experienced and wary teacher. 


Miss Juniper’s Ward. 


“ Next ! ” called Miss Juniper. 

“ B-o-ox,” said the little boy who stood second. 

“ No such letter as ‘ ox,’ remarked the teacher. 
“Next.” 

“B- double o-ox,” said another little boy triumph- 
antly, starting to go up to the head. 

“ Stop ! ” said Miss Juniper, “ I just said there was 
no such letter as ‘ox.’ Next.” 

The little boy stepped back crest-fallen, while Ahoy 
Choy, modestly lisping “ b-o-x,” went up to the head. 

The crest-fallen little boy made a face at her, and 
Biddy Killigan pinched her as soon as Miss Juniper 
looked the other way; but the second little boy who 
was very mad, because he had really meant “x ” and 
not “ ox,” shook his fist at her and whispered “ Chiny 
gal!” 

Now Ahoy Choy knew very well that she was a 
“ China-gal ; Miss Juniper had very early and sensibly 
told her she and Hung Goon were country-folks ; and 
under his direction she had mastered numerous words 
in the hideous language of the Celestial Land ; besides 
her name, her almond-shaped eyes, and her dusky skin 
were not to be mistaken. But Miss Juniper had 
taught her to not be ashamed of her race. 

Nevertheless to day, something in the little boy’s 
voice and manner aroused a sudden temper. Raising 


Miss Junipeds Ward. 


her little fist, the usually gentle Ahoy Choy gave him 
a tolerably well-directed blow between the eyes, which 
he received with a cry and returned with interest. 

When Miss Juniper turned she found Ahoy Choy 
hitting out wildly in all directions with one hand, 
while the other was firmly fastened in the little boy’s 
hair. The little boy, at great disadvantage, was do- 
ing his best and had reduced Ahoy Choy’s apron to 
tatters. 

“ Ahoy ! ” Ahoy ! ” she cried, like a sailor hailing a 
ship, “ what are you about ? Jimmy ! Ahoy ! ” 

And with great difficulty Miss Hetty disengaged 
her ward’s fingers from Jimmy’s hair and separated 
the combatants. 

“Oh-h! me eye! me eye ! ” wailed Biddy Killigan, 
wiping and rubbing it with all her might to make it 
look as red as possible. 

Miss Hetty restored quiet as soon as she could, set- 
tling matters for the present by keeping all four of 
the combatants in at recess, when she called them up 
to her desk and questioned them searchingly. 

The testimony all pointed to the fact that Ahoy 
Choy had made the first assault ; indeed, the little al- 
mond-eyed damsel did not attempt to deny it, and 
even positively asserted that she was not in the least 
sorry. 


* 



A SUDDEN TEMPER 






Miss Juniper's Ward. 


“ He called me ‘ Chiny-gal,’ ” she said in a chok- 
ing voice, her eyes lighting with baleful fire at the re- 
membrance of the insult. 

“ An she hit me a whack in the eye and nigh put it 
out ! ” howled Biddy Killigan. 

“What did you do that for, Ahoy?” asked Miss 
Juniper sorrowfully. 

“ I never ! ” replied Ahoy sullenly. 

The truth was, in one of the wild blows aimed at 
Jimmy’s head the back stroke had reached Biddy’s 
eye, quite accidentally of course, though it did not 
seem so when Ahoy mentioned that Biddy had 
pinched her for “ getting up head.” 

The crestfallen little boy, who modestly stood in 
the background, escaped censure and was sent out to 
play ; Jimmy and Biddy were stood in corners ; and 
Ahoy Choy, the remnant of her apron over her head, 
was placed in the teacher’s chair. 

Miss Hetty usually kept Ahoy Choy until she was 
ready to go, to have her company ; but this afternoon, 
as an additional punishment, she told her in icy tones 
to go when the rest did. The little girl looked back 
wistfully ; but Miss Juniper’s head was bent over her 
record-book and she did not see her, else her kind 
heart must have melted at the sight of the longing lit- 
tle face so dearly loved. 


Miss Juniper's JVard. 


As soon as they were well outside the school-house 
gates Jimmy and Biddy held a consultation, in which 
Jimmy’s brother Bob and Biddy’s brother Pat gave 
the benefit of their advice and experience. 

The four quietly followed Ahoy Choy for a block. 
She was crying bitterly and did not notice them, un- 
til a chorus of four voices shrieking “ Chiny-gal ! ” 
caused her to turn and face her foes. 

The poor little girl was helpless among so many, 
but she had the spirit of a hero. A short distance 
ahead she saw the refuse of a pile of bricks ; she ran 
to it and, bracing her back against a fence, opened 
the battle by a missile which struck Pat Killigan in 
the stomach, and caused him to double up very sud- 
denly. 

Biddy, who was a couple of years his junior, cried 
out : “ Oh-h ! me brother ! ” and sent the piece of 
brick flying back. 

Well, Ahoy Choy -got decidedly the worst of it. 
Three or four friends of the Killigans joined the 
stronger party, while she had but one ally. 

A meek pink-cheeked little China-boy, in a snow- 
white blouse, coming from the grocery with a pitcher 
of milk, was hailed by the little girl in his native 
tongue and at once took up a position by her side, 
where he remained until the pitcher was broken and 


Miss Juniper's Ward. 


the milk spilt, whence departed with the fragments, 
weeping. Upon this, the attacking party rushed 
upon the poor little lone warrior, and dragging her 
off to a large mud-puddle pushed her in. 

At this point the grocery-man interfered, and as- 
sisting Ahoy to her feet sent her home in charge of 
his errand-boy. Aunt Dorcas and Miss Hetty re- 
ceived her with open arms and tears ; the latter was 
just on the point of sallying out after her, having 
reached home first by a different route. 

They undressed her, bathed her, applied court- 
plaster and salve, and put her to bed ; where hot 
bricks to her feet and hot gruel to her stomach, per- 
haps saved her from a fever. As it was, she was 
quite ill and unable to walk for several days. 

As soon as Ahoy was well enough, Miss Hetty be- 
gan to teach her at home ; but, although obedient, she 
showed so languid an interest that her teacher was 
in despair. 

“ She tries, but it is such hard work for her,” Miss 
Hetty said to Aunt Dorcas. “ If I only had some- 
body to study with her ! ” 

“ There’s Mrs. Green’s China-boy next door ! Try 
him ,’ said Aunt Dorcas. 

“ I’ll tell you ! That boy on Silver Street that 
stood up for her ! When I went there to see about it 


Miss Juniper’s Ward. 


I thought he was a real nice boy ; and he lives with 
such a kind lady. He’ll do.” 

He did do. His name was Wing Wo Hie, and he 
was twelve year old and bright as a dollar. 

Well, the little Chinese class did wonders in the 
way of book-learning and general deportment, year 
after year for ten years, taking lessons two hours a 
day. At the end of that time, lo and behold ! Wing 
Wo Hie was twenty-two and Ahoy Choy was sixteen. 

Wing Wo Hie had just received an excellent posi- 
tion as Chinese cashier in a large bank. For the 
last three years he had worked there as clerk, study- 
ing and reciting to Miss Juniper in the evenings ; and 
his employers had such confidence in his ability and 
honesty, that when the position of cashier became va- 
cant they gave it to him. 

Thereupon, Wing Wo Hie came to his teacher and 
asked if he might marry Ahoy Choy. Miss Juniper 
said she was too young and she did not want to part 
with her ; but Wing Wo Hie said girls married very 
young in China, and finally Miss Juniper gave up her 
dear little ward. 

It was a grand wedding, Ahoy Choy was a beauty, 
as Chinese beauties go, and Wing Wo Hie had the 
same pink cheeks, only darker to suit his darkened 
skin, and the same meek pleasant face which had dis- 


Miss Juniper's Ward. 


tinguished him as a boy. Some of the rich Chinese 
merchants, hearing of the affair, sent elegant bridal 
presents to the humble little cottage. Chinese 
dresses, stiff with gold-thread and silk embroidery ; 
a small chest of the most costly and fragrant tea; a 
set of cups and saucers, painted all over with dra- 
goons and impossible trees, and so fragile it seemed 
as if a breath would break them ; frosted silver orna- 
ments looking as if made of snow ; and a beautiful 
cabinet of the finest wood, laquered a rich golden- 
brown, and inlaid with silver and mother-of-pearl. 

“ Yet somebody wrapped me in an old rag and left 
me on a rosebush ! ” said Ahoy Choy with tears in 
her eyes. 

“And they care nothing for you, now,” said Wing 
Wo Hie candidly. “ The bank people told them 
they ought to be generous, and they do this for dis- 
play.” 

The “ bank people ” themselves were very gener- 
ous ; for four or five of them clubbed together and 
fifty shining double eagles represented them on 
Ahoy Choy’s table. 

The bride’s pale blue silk dress, and all her wed- 
ding clothes, were given her by Miss Hetty and Aunt 
Dorcas ; while the embroidered veil and wreath of 
orange-blossoms were sent by the lady for whom 


Miss Juniper's Ward. 


Wing Wo Hie had once washed dishes. It was her 
milk-pitcher which had been broken in that memora- 
ble battle. 

They went away to China on their bridal-trip. The 
Bank wanted some business settled up there and 
r;ent Wing Wo Hie to settle it. 

“ So everything happens just right,” said Ahoy 
Ohoy. 

While they were gone, Aunt Dorcas was taken 
sick. The doctor was called and pronounced it 
small-pox. 

“ She had better be taken to the hospital,” he said 
to Miss Juniper. 

“ Never ! ” cried Miss Hetty. “ Aunt Dorcas has 
been like a mother to me and she would die of grief, 
doctor, to think I could give her up to be cared for 
by strangers in her old age. I’m a pretty good nurse, 
doctor, and I will do my best.” 

“ Well, you know the danger of infection, I sup- 
pose ? ” he said kindly. 

A great yellow placard, labeled “ Small-pox,” was 
pasted on the door and word sent to their friends not 
to come near them \ and so great was the horror in- 
spired that even the grocery-man and baker would 
not approach the house but left their goods just in- 


Miss Juniper's Ward. 


side the gate. The only persons that Miss Hetty 
saw for two weeks were the doctor and an absent- 
minded beggar, who came up and rang the bell, then 
fled as soon as he saw the placard. 

Well, Aunt Dorcas died. And then, the next day 
when the doctor came, Miss Hetty quietly asked him 
to get her a nurse, adding : 

“ How fortunate I was to keep : off while Aunt 
was here ! ” 

On the fifth day of Hetty’s fever, as she lay toss- 
ing, moaning, and delirious, the door-bell gave a loud 
peal. 

“ That’s Ahoy ! ” she said dreamily to the nurse. 
“I must be in China. Yes, I’m so hot; for that’s 
Ahoy and Ahoy’s in China.” 

Then, by an effort, her mind pierced the cloud for 
a moment and she said earnestly : 

“ Don’t let her in ! Don't let her in ! ” 

“ Be easy,” said the nurse, “ no one shall come in.” 

Going to the door as the bell pealed again, the 
woman spoke through the key-hole. 

“ Go away ! We’ve got small-pox here ! ” 

“ I know it. Let me in to my Aunt Hetty,” said a 
young voice outside. “ I’ve come to nurse her.” 

“You can’t come in,” was the reply ; “ and she’s got 
a nurse.” 


Miss Juniper's Ward \ 


All was silent. The nurse supposed she had gone. 
But Ahoy Choy’s childish temper had blossomed 
into determination and dispatch. Going swiftly into 
the fragrant little garden she raised Miss Hetty’s bed- 
room window, — the same little window through which 
she had once been lifted, wrapped in the blue cloth 
which smelt of opium, — and, as the nurse trium- 
phantly entered Miss Hetty’s door, Ahoy as trium- 
phantly entered the window. 

“ I’ve come to nurse my Aunt Hetty and I’m going 
to do it,” she said. “ I’ve been vaccinated, and my 
husband said I could come.” 

“Wait till the doctor comes ; he'll clear you out,” 
said the nurse irately. 

But the doctor didn’t. He evidently admired Ahoy 
Choy, as he told the nurse it would really be benefi- 
cial to the patient to have her beloved ward by her 
side. 

Miss Juniper was very, very sick ; but, somehow, 
as soon as the fever turned, Ahoy’s merry ways and 
cheerful chat seemed to do her more good than med- 
'cine, and, as soon as she was able to take the jour- 
ney, Ahoy Choy took her to San Rafael, where Mr. 
Hie came over every Saturday night to spend Sun- 
day with them. 


Miss Juniper's Ward. 


They live in the cottage together, now ; though it 
is rather crowded, for five — 

“ Five ? ” you say. 

Well, a pair of such plump little twins as Hetty 
Hie and Dorcas Hie certainly count as two; and 
Miss Juniper is three, and Mr. and Mrs. Wang Wo 
Hie make four and five. 

The neighbors think it’s “ awful,” but perverse 
Miss Juniper seems to be perfectly happy in the 
merry, loving, almond-eyed household. 


THAT WHICH HAPPENED TO TOMMY. 


A T first, I assure you, there was no appearance 
of anything of the kind. On the contrary, 
Tommy was a pretty boy, with a bright expression and 
lovely mouth and eyes and very long, dark lashes ; I 
would repeat, his eye-lashes were very long. 

One day, he came to my house to bring back a 
basket that I had lent him to take some cakes home 
in. 

“ Tommy,” said I, “ did your mother like the 
cakes ? ” 

“ Didn’t have any,” he replied. 

“ And pray why not ? ” I asked. 

“ There wasn’t any left for her.” 

“ Why, you little pig ! ” I remarked and thought no 
more about it. A few days after, however, I did say 
to my sister Mary : 


That Which Happened to Tommy . 

“ Mary, have you noticed that Tommy Slocum’s 
eyes are not so soft and sweet as they used to be ? ” 

“ It’s because his lashes are so short,” she said. 

“ Short ! ” I almost screamed. “ Short ! Why, I 



Tommy was a pretty boy. 


never saw such long lashes in my life, just like his 
mother’s ! ” 


That Whieh Happened to Tommy. 

1 ‘ The very shortest and whitest eye-lashes I ever 
saw on anything,” my sister answered. 

I was so much hurt that I left the room, and had 
to step out in the garden and look at the gooseber- 
ries before I could recover my temper. 

That was the beginning of it, to the best of my re- 
membrance. When he next came to see me I found 
that Mary was right. His eye-lashes were short and 
white ; he blinked a great deal, and his eyes were 
pinkish at the edges of the lids, — so much so, that I 
wept silently after he went away. 

Mary was so sorry she had hurt my feelings, that 
she brought down from the garret our rocking-horse 
and invited Tommy and three of his cousins to take 
tea with us. 

Mary dislikes children. She thinks it must be be- 
cause they are always tripping one up — either under 
one’s heels, or tumbling into the conversation or fire. 
But she made this rocking-horse party to please me. 

Tommy came first. His voice squeaked badly, but 
still he was sweet and clean. 

He jumped on the rocking-horse before speaking 
to us or taking off his hat. He rode the horse to 
water in one of Mary’s hyacinth glasses and broke it, 
and stuffed her soft knitting in its mouth for hay, and 


That Which Happened to Tommy. 

wiped it down with my kitten, which scratched 
him. 

I am afraid he would not have permitted his cous- 
ins to ride at all if I had not interfered in their be- 
half. 

I think it was on that same evening, that Tommy’s 
mother found, when she undressed him, short stubby 
white hairs growing out all over him. 

“ What have you been doing to yourself, Tommy ? ” 
she said. 

“ Do I do it, mother ? ” said Tommy, looking up at 
her, conscience-stricken. 

His expression was so piggish, and at the same time 
so guilty, that his mother could only fold him in her 
arms and cry over him. 

Tommy cried a little with her, for he was not yet 
all a pig. 

“ I do try sometimes to be good,” he said, “ but 
there’s something inside of me that wants to have the 
best of everything ; and I will kick and bite and 
squeak if it does not get it, and it is growing so 
fast.” 

At this time Tommy studied hard and played hard 
as well. There seemed to be no reason why he 
should not be a favorite, but whenever his name was 
mentioned there arose a chorus of “ Pig ! Pig ! Pig ! ” 


That Which Happened to Tommy. 

None of the boys knew of his new growth of bristles, 
nor were they jealous of his high standing in his 
class ; but when he refused to lend Frank Somers his 
Arithmetic one day at recess Bob Jones said frankly: 

“ What a pig you are ! ” 

Tommy had two Arithmetics and should have given 
one to Frank, as he was a poor boy. Instead of do- 
ing so, he teased him when he found him studying in 
Bob Jones’ book, and the affair ended in a fight. 

Tommy was well whipped. Bob Jones said Tommy 
could fight well enough, but that he lost his footing 
so often and stumbled so there was no fun in fight- 
ing him. 

When Tommy took off his shoes and stockings 
that night, he found that his feet were horny at the 
toes and seemed to be growing hoofish. Fancy what 
a night of misery for a poor little boy to bear alone ! 
He took his poor little feet in his hands and tried to 
warm them, and so fell asleep. 

When he awoke he hoped he had had a very bad 
dream ; but, even in one night, his feet had turned to 
pig’s feet, and by the broad daylight there was no de- 
nying it. 

He rose very early and dressed himself quickly, 
lest anyone should see his deformity. He filled up 
the toes of his shoes with rags, crying bitterly when 


That Which Happened to Tommy. 



he found how hard it was to walk without stumbling. 
Once or twice he thought of telling his new misery 
to his mother, also about his selfishness toward Frank 
Somers ; but a bad voice in his heart told him not to, 
and he went down to the kitchen and kicked at the 
door instead, squeaking at the cook : 

“ Give me my breakfast. I’m in a hurry. I want 
to be off to school.” 

He still kept head in Arithmetic, and wrote such a 
good composition that day that his teacher sent him 
to me with it for commendation. I praised it the 
more because his voice squeaked unbearably. 


That Which Happened to Tommy. 

“ How is your mother ? ” I asked. 

“ She’s in bed nearly all the time. I don’t see her 
much now, she’s too sick,” he answered. 

“ The most unpleasant and ugliest child I have 
ever seen,” said my sister before he had well left the 
room. My feelings were hurt again. I went to see 
his mother that day and found her quite ill. She told 
me the sad story of his new deformities and asked me 
to take care of him if she should never get well. 

“ There is no doubt about it,” she said, “ my poor 
child is very rapidly turning into a pig ; and I cannot 
tell whether he is assuming this shape because he is 
selfish and yields to his piggishness, or whether, since 
he has in reality become half a pig, he cannot help be- 
having like one.” 

We mingled our tears together, and I promised to 
do all in my power to improve and protect him if this 
great misfortune should cause her death. She then 
sent a servant for Tommy as it was his bed-time ; but 
he refused to come to his mother and bit and 
kicked the maid. So I went myself to see if I could 
influence him. I took him firmly by the hand and 
said to him, kindly : 

“ Your mother says you should be in bed by this 
time, Tommy. Don’t keep me waiting, my dear.” 

He obeyed me very slowly and sulkily. It made 


That Which Happened to Tommy. 

me sad to see him creeping up-stairs on his hands 
and knees ; and as he fell down two little steps that 
led to his room I followed him to see if he had hurt 
himself. 

“ Tommy, you haven’t kissed your mother good- 
night,” I said to him as he rubbed up his bristly hair, 
having hit his head when he fell into his room. 

“ No, I don’t do that ever now,” he said. 

“ And why not, I should like to know ? She is 
quite ill and wants to see you.” 

“ I am a pig and nobody cares,” he answered. 

“ How long have you been a pig? ” I asked. 

“ It’s been coming outside for more than a year. 
I think it began when I didn’t want to give things to 
Jean and Will one Christmas. Now, I don’t want to 
give anything — not to anybody, — and I don’t care if 
I am a pig ; only people look at me, and the boys call 
me ‘ bristles,’ and squeak when they see me com- 
ing.” 

It was mournful to hear his voice squeak when he 
was excited, and his hair seemed to stand up in a 
ridge on his head. 

“ I wish everybody was pigs,” he grunted. 

“ Would you like me to treat you like a pig ? ” 

“ What would you do to me if you did, then? ” 

“ I’d put you out in a sty, to-night, and have the 


That Which Happened to Tommy. 

plates scraped for you after breakfast to-morrow,” I 
answered. 

Tommy kicked and squeaked at my suggestion. 

“ You are not a real pig if you do not like sties 
and cold scraps.” 

“ I’ll bite you,” he remarked. 

“ Perhaps you are a pig, then,” said I. 

“ I’ll bite you and mother and the boys, to-morrow ; 
and I’ll root all their apples out of their lunch-baskets 
and gobble them up. I’ve been wanting to do it for 
ever so long, and now I am going to. And I’m going 
to mash all the Arithmetics and Grammars into the 
dirt and tear them with my teeth.” 

“ You’ll be a new variety of pig, then,” said I. “ I 
never heard of a pig that had a taste for walking on 
Arithmetics and Grammars.” 

“ You’d just better get out of my room,” he called 
from under a chair. 

So I left his room, wondering whether I had hurt 
his feelings, because if I had he was not all pig — poor 
little boy ! 

“ Tommy,” I said as I closed the door of his room, 
“ I want you to stop to-morrow as you go to school 
and tell me whether you kissed your mother good- 
night, for if you are really a pig I must know it, 
Tommy.” 


That Which Happened to Tommy. 

“ I won’t kiss her or you ever again, you horrid old 
thing,’’ he answered. 

Mary was not at all astonished when I told her the 
story of Tommy’s increasing piggishness. She said 
it was the sins of the father upon the children ; and 
although she had never heard of a child who was out- 
wardly changed into a pig she had no doubt it was a 
wise and good provision, — perhaps the only way to 
startle parents into the knowledge of the fact that 
many children were growing up in our midst little 
better than brutes. 

Mary is stoical about the misfortunes of others. I 
made up my mind not to confide in her any more 
about the poor child. When I met him in the street 
the next day he wore an overcoat down to his heels, 
which covered him up entirely ; but the yellow bris- 
tles on his face were quite evident, and when I sent a 
kind message to his mother he only grunted in reply. 

I decided to go and see his mother, to advise her 
not to allow him to go to school any more, for every- 
body turned and looked at him and many made offen- 
sive remarks. In a few days I heard that he was ill 
with the measles and would probably die. I went to 
him immediately, as his mother was still confined to 
her room. He was in bed, alone in his room, a 
dreary object to look upon. 


That Which Happened to Tommy. 

“ Water ! water ! ” he squeaked at me as 1 entered 
the room. 

“ It’s a good thing, Tommy,” I said, that your 
mother did not put you out in a sty that cold night, 
for a little boy must not take cold when he has 
measles.” 

“ Does he die then ? ” 

“ Sometimes he does.” 

“ Would I be sausages when I die ? ” he asked. 

“ No, because you are not really a pig, my child. 
You are very selfish and beastly, but you will get well 
if you are good and obedient ; and you need not look 
like a pig any longer if you do not behave like one.” 

Tommy’s answering grunt was violent but intelli- 
gent. 

I gave him oranges and grapes and was pleased to 
see that he kept some flowers that I brought him in 
his hand, for pigs do not care about flowers. 

I felt much better too, since I had explained to 
him that his restoration to health and to his own 
proper shape depended upon himself. That was my 
belief after much thought upon the subject, and I was 
quite sure that he understood me. I decided to stay 
and nurse him and his mother. 

He had a high fever and was often delirious during 
his illness. 


That Which Happened to Tommy. 

One evening, the doctor said, ‘‘This is the crisis. 
He will die from exhaustion to-night or he will begin 
to improve.” 

I sat up all night and watched him very carefully. 
Towards morning, when I was bathing his hot little 
arms and neck, I noticed that the poor child had a 
weak weary smile about his mouth. I gave him a 
cooling drink and he said “ Thank you.” It was the 
first word he had spoken since the beginning of his 
illness. 

I had become so familiar with his grunts and 
squeaks that I knew his wants by the noises he made ; 
still I did not enjoy his kicking at me when he 
needed anything. 

I feared that I was mistaken about his speaking 
pleasantly to me ; it was almost too good news to be 
true, so 1 leaned over him and said : 

*• Dear child, drink a little more of this. It will do 
you good.” 

He opened his eyes and thanked me again. 

“ Why Tommy,” I said, “ how pleasant it is to hear 
your voice once more ! ” 

“ Where’s mother ? ” he said, and turned over and 
went to sleep again. 

When he awoke his mother sat by the bedside cry- 
ing for very happiness, for a great change was com- 
ing over her child. 


That Which Happened to Tommy. 

He did not speak, but he was looking at her with 
the sweet soft eyes that he had when he was a little 
child, and there was a baby smile about his mouth. 
He seemed to feel the change himself, for he looked 
curiously at his hands and said at last : 

“ Was 1 a pig, or did I only dream it ? ” 

“ You were almost a pig,” his mother answered. 

“ And now ? ” he asked. 

“ And now, you are almost a boy. I think you will 
be a boy by the time you are well again.” 

“ If I don’t get well, give my slate and Arithmetic 
to Frank Somers and tell him he can have all my 
books,” Tommy whispered with tears in his eyes. 

He talked very little because he was so weak ; but 
it was pleasant to see his eye-lashes grow long and 
dark, and to see the soft rings of light hair on his lit- 
tle round head as he lay so helpless on his pillow. 

At first, his schoolfellows did not recognize him, 
but that was because he had been disguised for so 
long that they had almost forgotten the real Tommy. 

When once a boy has been a pig and is allowed to 
become a boy again, he is very careful to avoid any- 
thing piggish, lest the old sorrow should return ; for 
it is unpleasant to become a pig, and disgraceful 
also. 


LEFT-HANDED LUCK. 


I N THE Meyenberg’s house there were four bed- 
rooms. In one slept the father and mother, in 
another, Barbara Katrina and Sophie ; in the third, Fe- 
lix and Ludwig, and in the fourth, the maid Rosamond. 

On Monday, the 27th of August, 1877, the day on 
which my story begins, Rosamond rang the first bell 
at half past six ; and, in doing so, she dropped it. 
She heard the children laugh as she picked it up, and 
Ludwig called over the stairs : 

“ I say, Rosamond, which hand did you hold that 
in?” 

Rosamond smiled and tossed her head, but she did 
not answer, and went back to her muffins and peaches 
in the kitchen. 

When Mr. Meyenberg heard Ludwig call, he smiled, 
and saying, “ It is a good beginning ! ” laid down his 


Left-Handed iMck. 


right cuff which he was about to button on, and, in- 
stead, put on the left one. 

In the children’s rooms there was no little laughter. 
They kept a close watch on each other ; and he or she 
who put on a right shoe first, or held a comb in the 
right hand, was at once called to order. 

Down-stairs, Rosamond burned her fingers and 
broke a cup ; and when she carried the eggs in her 
left hand, she let the basket fall, and the new carpet 
was spoiled ; and that, Mrs. Meyenberg said, was not 
lucky, nor was it a good beginning. 

The children were all a little late ; for dressing had 
been unusually troublesome and unusually amusing. 

At breakfast, the coffee-pot had changed places 
with the cups, and had gone to the left, and Mr. Mey- 
enberg said that he would rather, in the future, have 
hash for breakfast ; he could use a spoon in his 
left hand very well, but it was not so easy to carve 
beefsteak. 

When Sophie took her milk in her right hand, her 
mother told her to put it down ; and there was much 
fun over poor Ludwig, who spilt his coffee, who could 
not butter his bread, and who was, his father feared, 
fatally right-handed. 

That noon Mr. Meyenberg had a check returned 
from bank because the cashier did not recognize his 


Left-Handed Luck . 


signature, it being written backward, with the left 
hand ; and at home, Mrs. Meyenberg gave up her sew- 
ing, as she was not able to use her thimble on a new 
finger. The reform in the family was very thorough. 
They not only used their left hand in preference to 
the right, but they would not use their right hand 
at all if they could help it ; and Barbara drove her 
music-teacher half crazy by playing the air in the bass 
and the chords in the treble. 

Of course they had a reason for this sudden rever- 
sion of their habits ; and, possibly, it was, you say, 
some conviction that, having two servants, it was folly 
to keep one in idleness and to make the other do all 
the work. 

Our two hands are exactly alike; they have the 
same number of fingers, of joints ; and if the right 
hand has seventy-seven bones, so has the left. When 
the learned men talk of the Biceps flexor and the 
Brachialis anticus, the muscles of the left arm and 
hand have as much interest in their fine Latin names 
as those of the right. The ligaments in one are woven 
as curiously in and out as in the other ; the nerves 
feel, the blood runs, the pulse beats alike in both; 
but we treat them very differently. 

Our right hand has all the honor, and it does all 
the work. It writes our letters, carries our money, 


Left-Ha?ided Luck. 


works our telegraphs, sets our type, carves, paints, 
sews, lifts, shakes hands, does our sums, draws our 
maps, cuts our magazines, raises the hat in salutation, 
puts the ring on the bride, and baptizes the children. 

The left hand is allowed to help. It holds the 
fork if the right hand is occupied ; it lifts the lid of a 
box, it holds the nail for the hammer ; but when it is 
busiest, it is simply waiting on its brother. It wears 
the rings, and is generally weaker than the other. 

We never allow it to acquire any expertness, and so 
if it ever happens that the right hand is disabled, it 
knows nothing. It has the same flexible joints, but 
they grasp awkwardly ; the seventy-seven bones are of 
little use, and as for the Biceps flexor , it turns out to 
be a very valueless muscle when work is in request. 
The left hand cannot sew, nor write, nor draw, nor set 
type, nor fire a gun. It is a poor reliance in the hour 
of need, and the only thing we can do is to call upon 
some one’s else right hand to do what is necessary 
for us. 

It is, therefore, easy to be seen that if the Meyen- 
berg family thought it time to educate their left hands 
they were very wise. 

But no, whatever reason they had for abandoning 
the right hand, the education of the left certainly had 
no influence with them. 


Left-Handed Luck. 


It might possibly, you think, have been on account 
of the connection the hands have with the brain ? 

We have, you know, two brains, or, more properly 
speaking, one brain is divided into two parts, each 
perfect, each having its own work; the business of 
the left brain being to direct the operations of the 
right side of the body, and of the right brain to care 
for the left side. In return, the hands and feet 
strengthen the brain as they use it. So you see, a 
learned doctor says, that if you never use your left 
hand, the right brain is weakened : and when paraly- 
sis comes, it has not the same power of resistance 
possessed by the other, and so the left side is para- 
lyzed. 

Mr. Meyenberg had read all this, and had quite 
agreed with the learned doctor that w'e ought to 
strengthen both sides of the body and of the brain 
alike ; and as it is easy to understand that he would 
not wish any of his family to be paralyzed, this would 
have been an excellent reason for their using and 
educating the weaker half. 

Yet this was not their reason. 

Lt was for luck. 

Left-handed luck ! The way of it was this. They 
had read, or Barbara had, and told them all about it, 
of Dr. Schliemann’s luck, a'nd how he won it,, as the 
story has been told by Miss Kate Field. 


Left-Handed Luck. 


In the first place Schliemann was not lucky as a boy, 
although, when he was a very little fellow and lived at 
home, he must have had a pretty good time. Then 
he was petted, and his father told him stories out of 
Homer’s Iliad, and he never tired of talking of Troy 
and persisting that, even if the city was destroyed — 
and that much he had to grant — the walls must still 
be in existence. 

He did not care much in these days for stories of 
dwarfs or of mermaids, but the deeds of Hector fired 
his soul, and he would rather have seen Helen of Troy 
than any queen alive. These were, as I have said 
very good times ; but after awhile his father died, the 
family was broken up, and the little fellow had to go 
out into the world to seek his own fortune. 

It did not seem to be a very good fortune that he 
found. His first venture was in a small grocery 
store, where he sold herring and cheese, went to bed 
late, arose early, and at last injured himself lifting a 
heavy barrel. 

After this his master had no use for him. He 
wanted no sick boys about; and so he discharged 
Schliemann, who now, penniless and ailing, set out 
very forlornly, to seek a better fortune. 

He walked one hundred and thirty miles to Ham- 
burg, begging his meals from house to house. In 


Left-Handed Luck. 


Hamburg he had a relative who put him as cabin- 
boy, on board a ship going to Venezuela. Here he 
was beaten, badly treated, shipwrecked, starved and 
miserable ; and so he never calls this a pleasant part 
of his life. At last he reached Germany again, and in 
Mecklenberg was so poor he feigned sickness that he 
might go to a hospital and be sheltered. There he 
rested for a little while, and wrote to his Hamburg 
friend who, this time, did better for him, and secured 
for him a situation with a merchant, for whom he 
copied letters, cashed money, and probably ran er- 
rands. 

“ But now,” said Barbara, making a fine rhetorical 
climax, “ see how everything has altered ! He is rich, 
he is famous, he has discovered Ancient Troy ; and if 
he never did see Helen, he found her head-dress, and 
his wife had her own portrait taken in it ! When you 
consider that this was all luck, and all because he used 
his left hand, it quite takes the breath away.” 

When her mother said that it might not have been 
all luck, Barbara appealed to Dr. Schliemanns own 
words. He had said it was, and if he did not know, 
who did ? 

The way of it was this : one day, while Schliemann 
was still poor and unknown, he met a man who owned 
a water-cure, and was very prosperous, but who once 


Left-Handed Luck. 


had been a tailor, and lived in the depths of poverty ; 
but those bad days were gone and now he lacked for 
nothing. 

Well, he had a secret, but he was generous, and he 
told it to the little Schliemann boy. 

It was certainly a very simple secret. Nothing 
more than to always use your left hand, your left foot, 
first ! 

The ex-tailor had tried it. He had put on his left 
shoe his left glove, his left everything, first. He had 
reversed the order of life, and the generally neglected 
members of his body had rewarded him. 

He had recognized their existence; they had 
brought him luck. He prospered. He had given 
up the needle, and taken to the wet sheet, and 
the money came rolling in. “ Now,” he said, “ you 
do the same. I began late ; I was fifty-seven years 
old before luck turned, but you begin now and have 
a fortunate life ! ” 

Schliemann heeded his advice. From that moment 
his right hand played the second in everything, and if 
his right foot went first into a room it was called back 
and the left took its place. 

At once he began to prosper ; and he now advises 
his friends to try the left-hand experiment. 


Left-Handed Luck. 


“ It is easy enough,” he says, “ and see what it has 
done for me !” 

Now, I do not want anyone to interrupt us here, 
and tell how he studied at this time, and qualified 
himself for life ! How he resolved to know English, 
and so how he went to work at it. It is true that 
when he ran, and when he walked, he carried his 
grammar and dictionary under his arm, he read aloud, 
he took a lesson every day, he wrote compositions 
upon Achilles, or Pi fern, or some such subject ; he 
learned these by heart, and repeated them to his 
teacher. He lived poorly, and spent over half his 
money on his studies ; and in six months he could read 
and speak English. 

That was good luck! 

Then he gave six more months to French, and as 
for Spanish. Italian, Dutch and Portuguese, he was 
such a fortunate fellow that six weeks was enough for 
each of these. 

Then there is the story of his studying Russian. 
He had an idea that it would help him in life to be a 
linguist ; but one day he found out that Russian was, 
after all, the one language he needed. The firm for 
which he worked wanted to negotiate with some Rus- 
sians for indigo, but the Russians spoke no German, 


Left-Handed Luck. 

and no one in the town spoke Russian. What was to 
be done ? 

“ This ! ” said the left-handed gentleman. “ 1 will 
study the language.” 

And he did. He hunted up some old books and 
set to work. Here indeed was a task ! The lan- 
guage is very difficult. The books were poor, and, 
to make matters worse, were in “ Old Russian.” But 
this last fact Schliemann did not know. Old and 
New Russian were alike to him ! 

In six weeks he was ready to write a business letter 
for the firm. He had not only studied night and 
day, but he had talked. He had no Russian with 
whom to converse, but he hired an old Jew for auditor, 
and for an hour every day the old fellow sat still and 
Schliemann shouted Russian at him. The Jew didn’t 
understand, J>ut perhaps he liked it none the less. 

The next thing that happened to this lucky fellow 
was the offer from his firm of a partnership in Mos- 
cow, with a capital of about forty thousand dollars. 

Of course he took it — with his left hand, I sup- 
pose — and, left foot foremost, went to Moscow. 
Here he was lucky and unlucky ; but he made money 
enough to live easily, and, what is more, after a time 
to sail away to Greece and dig up Troy, and, as Bar- 
bara said, to find Helen’s head-dress in her tomb. 


Left-Handed Luck. 


It is not worth while to tell you how he worked to 
get his money, how he watched the markets, and how 
he bought and sold. He improved his memory, he 
learned to write a good hand ; when he was over forty 
he went to Paris to study History ; he came to the 
United States, and lived here as a citizen. He mar- 
ried a Greek wife who could repeat the Lliad from 
memory ; and in almost everything this eager, open- 
eyed, enterprising Schliemann was fortunate. 

“ It is nonsense,” said Barbara, when she was tell- 
ing them all this and more, “to say there is no such 
thing as luck, for there is. Now there are my cana- 
ries ; they always die, and Lydia Hanson always has 
such luck with hers.” 

“ If you fed yours regularly — ” began Felix. 

“That has nothing to do with it,” interrupted 
Barbara, speaking very decidedly. “ I have no doubt 
Lyd often forgets her birds, but she has luck with 
everything.” 

“Yes,” said her father, “there is Jim Bradbury; 
you remember him, mother? He and George Lynd 
were in Prince’s printing office together, and they 
both used to say they meant to be rich ; and they would 
plan out together what they meant to do. They have 
never parted, that can be said; but Lynd owns 
the concern, and ha$ taken his family to Europe, 


Left-Handed Luck. 


while Bradbury is a pressman. Now if that isn’t luck 
I don’t know ; for one had as good a chance as the 
other.” 

And so they had. It was true that Lynd made a 
right hand of himself in the business, while Bradbury 
was content to be a left one, and do what he was told ; 
and even Dr. Schliemann would not say it was 
lucky to be a left hand. 

Then there is Felix Meyenberg himself. One day 
he met a boy from St. Louis who said something 
about the North Pole. 

“ I mean to go there some day,” said Felix. 

“ Why, so do I ! ” exclaimed the boy. “ I intend 
to discover the passage through.” 

“ So do I,” replied Felix. 

“ It’s very curious,” said the boy, “how many peo- 
ple do care for the North Pole. People are all the 
time telling me something about it.” 

“ No one ever tells me,” said Felix. “ I don’t be- 
lieve they would if I were in Greenland.” 

“ I don’t know why they shouldn’t,” replied the 
boy. “ Why, I was once on a steamboat and I said 
something to a man about Polar bears, and he told me 
he had been with one of the parties, cooking for Sir 
John Franklin. We had a good talk, and he told me 
a great deal. As for newspaper scraps, I have a 


Left-Handed Luck. 


whole book of them, and it was only yesterday I saw 
something in a cook-book about keeping meat fresh 
that I thought would be useful.” 

“You’re a lucky one,” said Felix. “ Now, I never 
see such things.” 

“ Perhaps you don’t keep thinking about them as I 
do. I remember once my father asked me if I ever 
thought how common salmon-color was, and I said, 
no, I never saw it anywhere, and he told me to count 
how many times I saw it the next day ; and it was 
ten times.” 

“ That was luck,” said Felix. “ You don’t see 
salmon-color ten times every day,” 

“No,” replied the boy; “but that day you know 
I kept thinking about it.” 

It was natural, while the boys were talking upon 
such subjects, that Felix should tell his compan- 
ion about Dr. Schliemann, his explorations and his 
luck. # 

“ Well,” said the St. Louis boy, “ if I thought it 
would take me to the North Pole, 1 would tie up 
my right hand in a sling and make my left handwork 
for both. In fact, I don’t know but I’d take to hop- 
ping and dispense with my right foot altogether.” 

“ It turned Dr. Schliemann’s luck, and / am going 
to try it, for one,” said Felix. 


Left-Handed Luck. 


“ It seems to mef said the St. Louis boy, “ that 
Schliemann’s hard work counted for something. But 
I often think of what my father once said when our 
Jim was complaining of his luck : 

“ ‘ Suppose you wanted to go to New York, Jim,’ he 
said, ‘ what would you do ? ’ 

“ ‘ Why, I would take the cars,’ said Jim. 

“ ‘ Which cars ? ’ 

“ ‘ The Eastern line, of course, — those going to 
New York.’ 

“ ‘ You would not take the Southern or Western ? ’ 

“ ‘ Certainly not,’ says Jim. 

“ ‘ If you did,’ says my father, * you might get to 
New Orleans or to San Francisco, but I hardly believe 
you would find New York. I should call it good luck 
if you did. 'And, Jim, if you were to start without any 
money to buy a ticket, and were to get a ride in a 
Pullman all the way, I should call that very good luck 
indeed ; but if, while you were standing at the corner, 
wishing you had the money, and that I would let you 
go, you were suddenly to find yourself in front of the 
Astor House with a pocket full of silver, then words 
would fail me. To say that was luck would be tame.’ ” 

“ And so,” added the St. Louis boy, “ that is the 
way this luck often seems to me. If /want a bird in 
the hand, or the two in the bush, I find I have to 


THUSIE’S FOURTH OF JULY. 


I T was different from any other Fourth of July. 

There wasn’t a man, woman or child in Bayfield 
whose blood did not tingle with a patriotic desire to 
“ celebrate,” not only because of the birthday of our 
nation’s liberty, but for the glorious anniversary of 
old Bayfield town itself. One hundred years old on 
this day ! Little Thusie Bassett wouldn’t have been 
in the least surprised if the sun had stood still. It 
would only have been just what ought to have hap- 
pened on this “ Centennial Day.” 

The day was everything that could be desired. 
Early the crowds began to assemble and the village 
green was gay with the happy folk who came proudly 
from their simple homes. Was ever anything quite 
so fine — the singers marching into the dilapidated 
old church with their books ; the tables in the grove 


ThusiJs Fourth of July. 


of fine maples just a little distance off fast becoming 
resplendent under the fingers of ambitious matrons 
and rosy-cheeked maidens; the grand new band, blar- 
ing and drumming so joyously that lazy farm-horses 
came hurrying up the steep hills to be there in time ; 
the little streamers of red, white and blue bespang- 
ling the harnesses ; the big flag floating from the 
church belfry; the cannon booming on the village 
green ? 

Thusie just clasped her hands and sighed. She 
had “ run and raced herself most to death,” as Aunt 
Martha observed, thus early in the day. She had 
fallen down and scraped the skin off from a large 
place on her knee ; she had torn a hoJe in her best 
frock; but what cared she for such slight mishaps ? 
Was she not part and parcel of this glorious Fourth 
of July? Tired as she was she swung her own small 
flag bravely, and glanced with pride at the little bunch 
of red, white and blue ribbons that Aunt Fanny had 
pinned on her white dress ; and then away she went 
again, her small figure curvetting and frisking in and 
out as she “celebrated ” with the other children. 

Well, the oration was over. What it was about, 
Thusie, for her life, couldn’t have told. But the big 
words sounded fine ; and when, at the end of all the 
names which were conscientiously read by Mr. Slo- 


Thusie' s Fourth of July. 


cum, the children by a preconcerted arrangement 
stood up and waved their flags, didfi't she spring to 
her small feet ! and didn't she wave her flag ! 

And the Township History — to the large-eyed child, 
crowded in on the hard bench, it was simply wonder- 
ful j and when her dear grandpa’s honored name was 
mentioned, she thought she never should be tired of 
sitting there to listen. But, after a while, the prickles 
began to run up and down her legs, — oh, if she 
could only stick them out straight once l So she was 
not very sorry, after all, when the end came and the 
delighted people began to move about and draw long 
breaths again, and she could descend to the common- 
place pleasures of an every day romp. 

“ Thusie, come here ! ” called Sarah Jones. “ I want 
to tell you something. No, Nelly Smith, you ain’t 
cornin’ ! You’ll go and tell ! ” And Sarah dragged 
Thusie off, and with an arm around her waist and 
persuasion in her voice she told of a secret — O, such 
a great one ! — and enlarged enthusiastically upon it to 
the two or three other girls who were graciously al- 
lowed to join. 

“ Now you see, girls, this is what we’re going to do. 
Don’t you never tell — ‘ certain true , black and blue, 
hope I may die if I do / ’ you must say ; because, you 
see, it’s a great secret.” 


Thusie's Fourth of July. 


“ O, no Sarah ! ” said timid little Frasie Newcomb, 
“ that’s wicked.” 

“ Poh ! no, you goosie ! it don’t mean anything.” 

What Sarah wanted them to say it for if it didn't 
mean anything, the girls didn’t clearly see ; but they 
repeated the magic words. 

“ There now ! I can tell you with some comfort,” 
said Miss Sarah, seating herself on the grass in a shel- 
tered nook, which example was followed by the others 
till they formed a circle ; then, in a low voice and 
with many mysterious gestures, she unfolded the won- 
derful news. 

“ Well, girls ! you know the fireworks to-night ? ” 

At this, Thusie gave an ecstatic little wriggle. Sa- 
rah gave her a push. 

“ Thusie Bassett, you sat on my toe ! ” 

Then she went on : “ Well, you all know we can’t 

see anything on the Green, the folks crowd and jam 
so ; so we are going up into the old belfry ! ” 

“ O ! — O ! ” screamed two or three of the girls. 

“ Sh / if you don’t want all the boys coming.” 

“ But, Sarah, I don’t see howf said one of the girls. 
“They won’t let us. You know Deacon Smith said 
nobody must go up there ; ’twan’t safe, he said. He 
said the old shell would break through or tumble off, 
if a great crowd got in.” 


Thusie's Fourth of July. 


“ Anybody knows better than that, and besides, we 
ain’t a crowd ! I guess ’tain’t coming down for five 
girls ! And just think how we can see the rockets 
and comets from the big window ! ” 

“ It would be splendid,” said Roxy Thompson, 
“ but I should be frightened most to death, Sarah.” 

“ And isn’t there mice — and things ? ” timidly asked 
Lucia Russell. 

Thusie said nothing. She knew her mother never 
would hear to the lovely plan. Besides, she was to 
go with the rest of the family to “ Uncle John’s.” O, 
dear ! if she could only do as she was a mind to, like 
Sarah. 

“ Besides it will be dark, Sarah,” pursued Lucia. 

“ No ’twon’t ; it’ll be as light’s anything. Why, the 
fireworks go shooting up, whiz ! bang! all through 
the sky,” — and Sarah suited the action by an ex- 
pressive fling. “ I’ve seen ’em when I went down to 
Boston last year.” And Sarah descanted on the glo- 
ries and wonders in store for them till she got them 
wild with delight and ready for anything. Having a 
head for contrivance she had the plan ready for get- 
ting into the church. 

“ You know, girls,” she said, “ they’ve decided to 
ring the bell when they’re ready to set off the fire- 
works. Well, when Joe Vance goes up to ring it, we 


Thusie' s Fourth of July. 


must b e all ready to creep up after him. He’s awful 
slow, you know ; and besides, he’ll be making such a 
noise with the bell he can’t possibly hear us. And 
I’m going to have my pocket full of candy and we 
can sit up there and see the whole thing just elegant l 
So, Thusie, you be sure and be here. We’re to meet 
under the big oak tree. And Frasie, if you tell, 
there’ll be the most awful things happen to you ! And 
Lu, don’t wait to wash all the dishes for your Aunt 
Betsey ; she can do ’em for once. And Tildy — ” 

“ If you want any dinner, come along ; they’re all 
sitting down ! ” screamed Rob Davis, poking his head 
into their retreat with a whoop that made them 
jump. 

Away they all ran, and fireworks and belfry were 
soon forgotten in the glories of that table — a real 
Fourth of July celebration table! Flowers, pyra- 
mids of cakes with flags flying from the apex, cookies, 
tarts, iced loaves, — every cook had done her best. 

Sunset was coming on before the last left the ta- 
bles, and even then Thusie had scarcely thought 
over her promise. She only vaguely realized what a 
forbidden thing she and the others were going to do. 
I think if she had really and fairly reflected upon it, 
she would have refused to have anything to do with 
the whole thing and stood firm. “ My think always 


Thusie's Fourth of July. 


comes afterwards,” a little girl once said, and it’s 
most always a sorry think ! 

Well, the sun went down. Great gold and red 
clouds came out all over the sky ; there was one cloud 
nearly white, with deep red borders and a rosy centre, 
on the blue patch that had been so bright all day. 

“ See, it’s put on red, white and blue ! ” called 
Henry Carter, and all the children rushed to see. 

“ Thusie,” said her mother, as she drew her little 
girl who was racing along with the others towards 
her, “ I am going home now to put Gracie to bed, 
and when you get ready you run right along up to 
Uncle John’s. Aunt Fanny went an hour ago, she 
was so tired.” 

Thusie’s heart gave a naughty little leap. Was 
anything ever so convenient ! Merry groups were al- 
ready getting “the best places” for a good view. 
She knew it must be time to be at the meeting-place 
under the big oak. Away she ran with rapid foot- 
steps and was soon under its shelter. She was the 
first one there, but in a minute Sarah Jones and 
Tildy Thompson rushed up and threw their arms 
around her; then Lucia came — all there but Frasie. 

“ Why don’t she come, the stupid thing ! ” fretted 
Sarah. “There’s old Joe crossing the Green, now; 
we can't wait for her any longer.” 


Thusies Fourth of July. 


That moment Frasie, panting and frightened, hur- 
ried up and was pulled into their shelter. 

“What made you so late ? ” demanded Sarah. 

“ Oh ! I couldn't help it,” panted Frasie. “ I had 
to run every step of the way. My little brother Teddy 
and cousin Attgusta would come, and old fat Mrs 
Brown wanted me to get her a chair, and then I tum- 
bled down and — ” 

“Well, never mind,” said Sarah, “you’re here now, 
at last. Come, girls, now for it ! ” And with many a 
whisper and giggle they stole along under cover of 
the darkness after old Joe who was blundering up 
the stairs, making so much racket himself that he 
couldn’t hear anything else. 

“O, mercy!” whispered Sarah, “I ran my head 
into a horrid cobweb and it’s all in my eyes.” 

“ Sh ! Sh /” And on they sped lightly. 

“ Frasie Newcomb, you shan't scream, so there ! ” A 
big mouse, unaccustomed to such interruptions, had 
flounced across the floor right across the children’s 
feet. Clang — Clang ! clingity — clang! How queer 
the old bell sounded up here. 

Joe they could see above them as his figure swayed 
back and forth, and they wondered how he could pos- 
sibly get up there upon the rickety little ladder. 
Wasn’t it delightful though, up in this dim forbidden 


Thusie's Fourth of July. 


spot — all shadowy nooks and mysterious recesses — 
lighted weirdly by the lurid glare from the firework 
stand outside. How queer all the people looked mov- 
ing down on the Green. 

“ There’s Miss Priscilla Bascom,” announced Tildy 
with a soft giggle, “ Ain’t she funny ? My ! look at 
her nose — it’s a yard long ! ” 

“ Yes ! but O, see what they’re doing there ! ” whis- 
pered Sarah excitedly. 

“ Where ? where ? ” said Frasie, trying to see. 

“ O, Frasie ! you push bad as the folks on the 
Green,” grumbled Sarah, not moving in the least to 
accommodate. 

Just then a most dismal noise sounded close which 
made them all jump and stare in each other’s faces 
in fright. 

“ Oh, what was that ? ” whispered Lucia, grasping 
Thusie’s arm. 

Sarah’s black eyes began to protrude a little, but 
she said nothing. 

Hush ! Another awful noise that seemed to the 
frightened girls like thunder; something ran and 
pounced into a dark corner. They didn’t wait to see 
what it was ; they sped and tumbled over each other 
to get to the landing below. Thusie’s lovely blue 
sash was grasped by Sarah’s sticky fingers, which had 


Thusie's Fourth of July. 


been greedily and slyly diminishing the promised 
pocketful of candy in the darkness above. 

“Well ! ” gasped Sarah, when at last they reached 
the foot of the stairs, “ I don’t see what there is to be 
frightened at ! ” 

“ What — did you — come for then ? ” choked Thu- 
sie, who had scrambled so she could hardly breathe, 
let alone talk. 

“ Why, I didn’t till you all started,” snapped Sarah. 
“ But never mind, here’s a splendid place to see ! ” 
and she ensconced herself at once in the best corner 
of the big, square, front window. It was very dirty, 
being covered with dust and grime, not exactly the 
place that careful mothers would have selected for the 
holiday dresses of their children. 

The grand show of the evening now began. The 
girls held their breath as they watched entranced in 
the dirty old window, crouching together very uncom- 
fortably, trying hard to think they were having a nice 
time. And O ! it was so warm and stifling. 

“ Phew ! How close it is ! Do open the window, 
Sarah \ ” gasped little Frasie at last. 

But it wouldn’t open. 

“ I wish we had staid out on the Green,” wailed 
Tildy. 

Suddenly Sarah screamed. 


Thusie's Fourth of jfuly. 


“Why, as sure as you’re alive, they’re going round 
to the side of the church, girls, with that splendid 
wheel of liberty! O, hurry , hurry , hurry /” and she 
began to scramble down and pick her way over the 
rickety landing to the belfry stairs. 

“ Wait!” called out Frasie ; but Sarah sped on. 
They could scarcely see her ahead. They had all 
they could do to follow her, and Thusie, being last 
and catching her dress on a rusty nail by the unlucky 
hole she had acquired in the early part of the day, 
had to stop outright and release it, and so was en- 
tirely separated from the others. Her mates, suppos- 
ing her close behind, reached the front outer door and 
were soon scattered in various directions among their 
friends, and lost in the delightful enjoyments. 

Thusie turned, after going down the stairs, the 
wrong way. Near the foot there was a closet, — a lit- 
tle old musty place for odds and ends — a place that 
very few knew existed. The door of this closet stu- 
pid Joe had left open when he went for a pole that 
was wanted ; and Thusie, in her bewilderment stum- 
bling along the narrow passage-way, turned into this 
door and fell headlong over an old worm-eaten stool 
standing in the middle of the floor. She struck her 
forehead with great violence on the floor beyond, and 
knew no more. 


Thusie' s Fourth of jfuly. 

And now the show was over. Everybody was get- 
ting ready for home. Old Joe was locking the church. 

Couldn't any friendly hand rouse little Thusie? 
Aunt Fanny, safe at “ Brother John’s,” supposed her 
with her mother on the Green. This was why Thusie 
wasn’t missed by anyone. Couldn’t something have 
whispered to the loving mother as she sat there in her 
low rocking-chair — kept at home herself from Uncle 
John’s by sick little baby Gracie, crooning soft melo- 
dies into the fretful little ears — of the danger and 
loneliness that threatened her little Thusie ! 

The old church door shut with a bang. This it was, 
probably, that fairly roused Thusie from the swoon out 
of which she was slowly coming. 

In those first dreadful moments Thusie never knew 
what she did. She groped her way out at last to the 
main passage. There was a window up to which she 
managed to climb and press her frightened little face 
piteously to the pane. From time to time, as she 
had groped her way along, she had called and shouted 
and then paused to listen. She soon began to realize 
this was of no use. 

“ Oh, dear ! I don’t believe I ever could have hated 
Uncle John’s,” she sobbed. “Its just the loveliest 
place ! ’ 

And then the bitter tears dropped down and rolled 


Thusie' s Fourth of July. 


all over the soiled little cockade that had been so gay 
and patriotic in the early morning. Thusie was a 
child of great common sense. She knew nothing 
could actually harm her in the old church, and dark- 
ness had never for her any of those keen terrors that 
invest it with such horrible dread for other children ; 
but remorse reproached her sorely. 

She said over all her prayers, even those of her ba- 
byhood. And then she watched and waited. It 
seemed to her hours, but, in reality, it was only late bed- 
time through the village ; the lights, one after another, 
went out, and all were peacefully settling for the 
night 

What was that ! Surely nothing but a mouse nib- 
bling at the old wood-work. Again. That was no 
mousie ! Thusie would have said she smelt some- 
thing burning, only she must have been dreaming. 
She pinched herself to keep awake. But no ! there 
certainly was a little flame of fire shooting up its de- 
termined tongue right there on the very roof of the 
porch. Locked up in an old church, with the fire 
that had somehow caught from the fireworks and been 
smouldering, until now it had broken out ! All the 
people at home and in bed ! 

Thusie knew enough to realize that the old weath- 
er-beaten structure could never withstand the test. 


Thusie' 1 s Fourth of jfuly. 


If she could only ring the old bell ! But Joe always 
put up the ladder and secured it by a hook when he 
finished ringing. She rattled the window ; she 
screamed ; she crawled to the door and tried with all 
her might — which was quite considerable now — to 
shake it ; anything to make a noise. 

She could see the fire slowly growing bigger. 
What was one flame had now become two , with a swift 
increasing velocity that threatened the whole building. 

“ Oh, dear ! I wanted fireworks, and now I have got 
them,” moaned Thusie. 

Still the awful crackling as the dry timbers took 
fire, and the smoke began to come in through the big 
cracks. She flung herself down on the floor; she 
could not look up any more. 

“Fire! fire! The church is on firel ” in what 
seemed to Thusie the voice of an angel, rang through 
the stillness. 

It was Farmer Brown going home late in his wagon. 
The old church porch was wreathed in flames when 
his first wild cry rang over the startled village. 

Thusie rushed back to the window. She felt the 
hot rush of the flames pushing in at the cracks and 
the rickety window. The light of the bright fire fell 
upon her white dress, whiter face, and disordered 
hair, making a strange picture ; but she was not dis- 


She crawled to the door and tried with all her might to shake it 






A '*.'7? 

1* , 

S 














Thusie' s Fourth of July. 


covered yet by the excited crowd. At last Job Saw- 
yer, a stalwart rough blacksmith, but with a heart ten- 
der as a child’s, cried out : 

“ Why ! there’s a little gal up there 1 ” 

All eyes were turned then up to the window, and a 
second’s pause fell upon them all. Then Job sprang 
upon another man’s shoulder, swung himself up to 
the railing, and with one blow from his powerful fist 
shattered the window to fragments. He grasped 
Thusie, passed her to the trembling crowd below. 
Thusie heard the voices about her as in a dream. 

“ Why, it’s little Thusie Bassett ! ” 

“ Sakes alive ! how r did it happen ? ” 

“ What if it had been my Jane ! ” 

“ Where’s her mother? ” 

She only knew she was in her father’s arms — safe 
now ! And she knew no more until in her own dear 
home she came to herself with a great gasp ; and 
there she was, looking into the blessed face of her 
mother. And six simple little words were on her lips, 
unuttered, involuntary, but never forgotten, never an- 
nulled : u I will always mind my mother /” 


BOBBY’S SHIRTS. 


“T\ /TOTHER, mother /” called a complaining 
1 v i. voice from the top of the stairs ; and pleas- 
ant little Mrs. Nash left the rosy bacon and golden 
eggs she was frying, and going to the stairway door, 
answered : 

“ What is wanted, Bobby ? ” 

“ A s-h-i-r-t I ” 

“ You don’t mean to say, Robert Nash, that your 
shirt is missing again ? ” And Mrs. Nash, in her ex- 
citement, threw up her hands, and the fork she had 
been using dropped and the tines stuck up in the 
floor. 

Charlotte left the steaming, mealy potatoes she 
was peeling and ran to the stairway door. Harriet 
came also with the loaf of bread in her hands. Sa- 
rah joined the group with a dish of pickles ; while 


Bobby's Shirts. 


Mary, appearing on the scene with a plate of cheese, 
was confronted by Martha with a plate of butter, and 
Emeline with a pumpkin pie. 

“What’s up? ’’cried Captain Nash, entering the 
kitchen with a pail in each hand. “ Where are the 
wimmin folks? The house is full of smoke. The 
cat’s on the breakfast table with her head in the milk 
pitcher, — s~c-cat 1 you cat. The dog is at the cheese- 
curd, — git out, Lion ! git out, sir ! A hen and chicken 
in the bread-tray, — sho, sho, sho / ” 

The six girls scattered as their father came up say- 
ing: 

“ Ain’t that boy up yit ? There’s no tellin’ what 
mischief the cows will git into. I turned ’em out 
more’n an hour ago. Come, come, boy ! git up.” 

“ I would have been up,” whined Bobby from the 
room above, “ but I hadn’t any shirt to put on.” 

The captain’s bearded chin dropped as these 
words came floating down the little dark back stair- 
way. 

“ He shall stay in bed with nothin’ ter eat till he 
owns up about them shirts ! He’s plannin’ ter run 
away to sea or somewhere, an’ he means ter have 
shirts ’nough ter last him a three years v’y’ge ; but 
I’ll starve it out on him ! ” 

“ He will have to lie in bed anyway,” sighed Mrs. 


Bobby s Shirts. 


Nash, “for he has nothing in the world to put on, 
and there must be a shirt made for him, and com- 
pany coming, too,” and she pulled the tines out of 
the clean white floor. 

“ I should think there might be sumthin’ mustered 
up for that boy to put on for a shirt,” said the cap- 
tain. 

“ His shirts are all gone again, father,” said Char- 
lotte, the eldest, “and there’s no use scolding or 
whipping him, for that don't bring them back.” 

“ Gone ! ” put in Harriet, “ I should think so. Old 
ones and new ones, flannel ones and cotton ones, fine 
ones and coarse ones ; and all father’s old ones, as 
well as my two white sacques and Sarah’s short night 
gowns, and every other garment that belonged to any 
one of us that could be made to do duty as a shirt.” 

“/believe,” said the more practical sister Martha, 
“ that he sells them for peanuts or candy, or some- 
thing of that sort.” 

“ Nonsense,” bridled up Emeline. “ Bobby is no 
such kind of a boy ; he is just doing it for fun, and 
of course the missing garments must be in the house 
somewhere. I intend to take another good look, and 
find them this time, if I have to overhaul the back- 
chamber and garret,” and away she ran up-stairs and 
into her brother’s room. 


Bobby's Shirts. 


“Now, bub,” said the good-natured sister pleas- 
antly, “if you will tell me where you have hid all 
those shirts, I will bring you up a nice breakfast un- 
beknown to any of the folks.” 

“ I dunno,” whimpered poor Bobby. “ I hope to 
die if I do.” 

“ I don’t believe he does know,” thought Emeline. 
“ Bobby is a conscientious boy and he never would 
have said ‘ hope to die ’ if he had hid them shirts or 
sold them for peanuts and candy.” So she drew 
from beneath her apron an egg and ham sandwich 
done up in a paper, and handing it to Bobby left the 
room without a word. 

The hungry boy barely had time to make way with 
the welcome offering when he again heard steps upon 
the stairs. He curled his bare arms and shoulders 
under the bed-clothes and peered out disconsolately. 
It was Charlotte this time. 

“ Now if you will tell me without any teasing, bub, 
where all your shirts are, I will bring you up a lunch.” 

“ I dunno, no more’n the dead, sissy,” and Bobby 
began to cry as he added emphasis to pathos. “ I 
hope to die and choke to death if I do.” 

“ Dear me, how you do talk,” said Charlotte, and 
hearing the stair-way door open she slid a handful 
of cookies and a slice of gingerbread under her broth- 


Bobby's Shirts. 


er’s pillow, and slipped out into the shed chamber 
just as Sarah appeared in the little room. 

“ Now, Bobby,” she began — 

“ Don’t you ask me another word about them 
plaguey old shirts,” shouted the now thoroughly irate 
lad. “ I hope to die and choke to death, and never 
breathe another breath, if I know what has become of 
them ; and I should think I had said so times enough. 
And if you want to see me starve to death right be- 
fore your eyes, all right ; but I don’t think 1 should 
allow one of my sisters to be treated in this way.” 

This appeal was so pathetic that the sedate Sarah 
brought forth from the folds of her dress a mince 
turnover and a generous cube of sage cheese. 

“ Good for you ! ” cried Bobby, seizing with alac- 
rity his favorite viands ; while Sarah meeting Mary in 
the hall told her that she began to believe with old 
mother Whipple that Bobby was bewitched. 

The girls, each in turn, had carried up a dainty 
lunch to their only and much petted brother, now in 
durance vile ; but for all that the forenoon dragged 
for the always active boy, and he sat up in bed and 
listened eagerly as, about noon, there floated up to 
him from the front of the house the little bustle of 
an arrival. Presently, one of the girls put her head 
in the door of his room to say that it was Aunt Louisa 



limlMvlWVN 


IHiHII 

III 'Hi 


He sat ut in bed and listened eagerly. 





Bobby's Shirts. 


and the twins, Jared and Jason, and that they came 
in the Westford stage. 

“Where is Bobby ?” demanded the two somewhat 
uproarious boys. Their cheery voices rang through 
the capacious and substantial farmhouse, even to the 
little ell-room and bed wherein was curled the culprit, 
just now in a fearful state of impatience, while below, 
his mother and sisters were explaining the condition 
of affairs to the visitors. 

“ I suppose the twins can go up and see him,” said 
Mrs. Nash, “ but he can’t get up just yet. Sarah has 
been to the store with some eggs and bought some 
cotton cloth, and Emeline has cut out a shirt, and the 
girls have all lent a hand as each had a spare mo- 
ment, but it is not ready to put on.” 

“My boys have got shirts enough,” said consider- 
ate Aunt Louisa, unlocking her big trunk ; and soon 
Jared and Jason were mounting the stairs, two steps 
at a time, shouting each jump as only wide awake 
boys can. 

“ The poor boy will be glad to get up to dinner,” 
said his mother. “ He must be hungry enough by 
this time.” 

“ Haven’t you had anything to eat to-day ? ” asked 
Jared, eyeing Bobby curiously as he emerged from 
the bed and drew the neat little snow-white shirt over 


Bobby's Shirts. 


his head. Bobby laughed, put his finger on his lips, 
then raised one of the fluffy white pillows, disclosing 
under it, between the folds of a newspaper, the remains 
of his lunch. 

“ They’ve all brought me a bite except mother, and 
she would have been glad to only she wouldn’t dare 
to disobey father. I ’spose she’s dreadfully worried 
for fear I am hungry.” 

Here the dinner-bell rang. The advent of the 
aunt and cousins operated towards the enlargement 
of the prisoner, of course ; and it only needed the 
gracious assent of Captain Nash to cause the appear- 
ance of his little son at the table. Bobby partook 
so very sparingly that his mother thought he must be 
ill ; but his antics with his cousins reassured the ten- 
der-hearted little woman, as they left the good far- 
mer’s generous table and ran capering off to the big 
barns. 

“Now, cousin Bobby,” said Jared, “tell us about 
your shirts. Are you really saving them up to take 
with you when you run away ; and where are you go- 
ing? Tell us , won’t you ? ” 

“ I ain’t a-going to run away,” cried Bobby in a 
fretful tone, provoked as he could be that the dreaded 
subject must be thrust upon him even by his visitors. 
“ I hain’t no idea of runnin’ away and I never had ; 


Bobby's Shirts. 


and I hope to die and be shot and scalped and 
skinned and drowned and have hot lead poured in 
my ears, if I know where them old duds are. And 
now I hope y will believe what I say and not talk 



Sarah, meeting Mary in the hall. 


no more about them shirts ! " And Bobby turned a 
neat somerset on the hay-mow, and astonished the 
twins by jumping off upon the clover bay below. 

“ Is there any good place to go in swimming around 


Bobby's Shirts . 


here ? ” queried the cousins, when Bobby appeared at 
the top of the long ladder, which was made by pins 
inserted in the post. 

“ Oh, heaps of them ; but our folks are so afraid I 
shall go near them that they make themselves miser- 
able all the time. I don’t s’pose you’ll believe me 
when I tell you that I’ve never been in swimming in 
my life. O, don’t I wish I could once! I would 
dive and swim like this .” And, putting the palms of 
his hands together above his head, with an Indian 
whoop he plunged again down from the great beams 
upon the fresh, loose clover, where he kicked 
and squirmed and went through all the motions of 
swimming. 

“ Come on, boys, and see how cool and fresh the 
water feels. I’m the great American champion swim- 
mer and diver and floater ! I can float, strike out, 
dog-paddle, and swim under water! Come on, I 
say.” 

“ There he is again,” said Emeline to her Aunt Lou- 
isa. They had entered the broad, cleanly swept 
barn floor just in time to witness this last perform- 
ance. “ He is bewitched, too, on the subject of swim- 
ming. He reads everything he can find about swim- 
mers and divers, and is perfectly wild about the wa- 
ter. If he was not such a remarkably obedient boy 


Bobby's Shirts . 


we should be in a constant terror lest he should be 
drowned. But father has positively forbidden his go- 
ing into the water, and Bobby would never think of 
breaking one of father’s rules.” 

“I tell you, Aunt Louisa, a boy with six sisters, all 
older than he is, is an object of pity anyway,” said 
Bobby, landing in a flying leap from some unexpected 
quarter and turning another of his remarkable som- 
ersets on the barn floor, to the delight of the twins 
and the consternation of his sister. 

“If I start off fishin’,” went on Bobby, “I’m or- 
dered not to go near the water ; if I want to go hunt- 
ing they hide father’s gun and ammunition ; if I jump 
they cry out I shall be lamed; if I want to take a 
ride they implore father to keep the horse in the 
barn. I might as well be a wax doll and done with 
it for all the fun I’m allowed to have. I can’t really 
do anything — I have to make believe ! So come on 
and see my cannon,” and with a shout the three boys 
disappeared in the orchard. 

The cannon proved to be a huge log, from which 
the bark had been peeled long before so that it was 
bleached to a snowy whiteness. Half of its length 
was hollow. Bobby drew a long walnut pole from its 
hiding-place beneath the log. 

“ This is the great revolving Gattling gun,” said he. 


Bobby's Shirts. 


“ See me load her now. This is my ram-rod,” and 
he went through his manual of artillery loading and 
firing, the twins lustily shouting “bang” when he 
pulled the cord he had affixed to the make-believe 
hammer, and thinking it fine fun. 

“ This old log might be loaded and split with real 
powder,” said Bobby. * “ It would make a tremendous 
noise, but, oh, dear me l the girls would have a fit at 
the bare mention of it. I tell you what it is, boys, it’s 
pretty hard on a feller to have to be used as well as I 
am. The fact is, I am just killed with kindness. I 
know it’s nice to have sisters to fix you up and curl 
your hair and help you get your lessons and to take 
you visiting and tell just how to be nice and sweet 
and pretty, but a boy must have some boy’s fun” 

When night came, the three lads teased so hard to 
be allowed to share the same room that Mrs. Nash 
made up Bobby’s bed as nice as she could, with two 
extra blankets and pillows, and, at an early hour, 
tired out with their afternoon’s frolic, they went to 
bed. 

About midnight, Bobby astonished his cousins by 
getting out of bed and opening one of the chamber 
windows. 

“What’s up?” drowsily asked Jason, rousing up 
and turning over with a groan. 


Bobby's Shirts. 


“ Hush ! ” whispered Jared, getting out of bed in 
his turn. “ Don’t you see he’s asleep ? Look at his 



staring eyes. Let’s see what he will do.” 

The moon was at its full and was shining directly 
into the room, so that the boys could see almost as 
well as in broad daylight. Bobby deliberately got 
out of the open window upon the flat roof of the ell, 
crossed it, swung himself into the limbs of an apple- 
tree in near proximity, and from them descended to 
the ground. 

“ What one boy has done another boy may do, al- 


Bobby's Shirts. 


though the first boy is asleep and insensible to dan- 
ger,” whispered Jared, as, followed closely by Jason, 
he slipped quickly to the ground. “ Come on ! ” And 
away the three white-robed figures sped in the sultry 
night. 

Well, Bobby gave his pursuers quite a race. 
Through the garden, the orchard, and a strip of 
meadow, along beside an old stone fence, in the 
shadow of a wood, until he came upon that very same 
log, the “ Revolving Gattling gun ” of the afternoon. 

Bobby paused beside the old bleached log lying so 
still and glistening in the bright moonlight, stripped 
his borrowed shirt off over his head, rolled it carefully 
into a wad, then, putting it into the opening of the 
hollow part of the log, he pounded it snugly home 
with the long walnut * ram-rod’, which he very cau- 
tiously replaced under the fringe of high grass be- 
neath the log. He then went through all the motions 
of firing the ‘ gun’, after which he climbed upon the 
top of the log, and walking to the highest end, plac- 
ing his hands above his curly head, palms together, 
he leaped off down into the heavy, dewy grass, and 
went sprawling about after the fashion of the after- 
noon performance, — “ swimming under water,” the 
poor boy ploughed his head along in the grass ; 
and swimming “dog-paddle,” he turned upon his 


Bobby's Shirts. 


side and kicked and pulled himself on in the direction 
of the farm-house. His strength, doubtless, now al- 
most exhausted, he rose and retraced his steps to 
the garden. Regaining the roof by the same means 
as he descended from it, he quickly ran across it, scram- 
bled into the window and immediately curled down 
between the sheets, the twins close upon his heels 
at all points. 

Jared and Jason had arranged their plans for the 
morrow as they were following Bobby through the 
meadow ; and soon the trio were fast asleep. 

The twins were awakened in the early morning by 
Bobby cheerily shouting : 

“ Hello, boys, your shirt ’s gone slick and clean 1 ” 

His look of utter bewilderment was so funny to 
see that the twins could not help laughing immoder- 
ately. The folks below, who were also astir early that 
morning, came trooping up to the boys’ room in an- 
swer to Jared’s lusty calls. Bobby’s mother looked 
grave, Martha and Sarah cried ; but Aunt Louisa 
presently brought another shirt, and then the three 
boys were soon in hot pursuit of the cows that had 
broken into an adjacent corn-field. 

Breakfast over, there was a great deal of confiden- 
tial talk between the twins and their mother on the 
front piazza, followed by her going out to the barns 


Bobby's Shirts. 


where her brother was still at his chores and begging 
him to allow the boys to split open that big log with 
“ real powder.” 

“ I’ve been thinkin’ of havin’ it done for some 
time,” said the farmer. “ There’s a cord o’ wood in 
that log at the least calculation. But I haven’t the 
time to see to it myself, and I don’t want to trust the 
boys at the business; but if they can get Dennis 
Gould to help them and see that they ain’t careless 
with the powder, I don’t care.” 

So the boys ran off to the village and soon returned 
with Dennis, with a whole wheelbarrow load of au- 
gurs, beetles, wedges, axes, screws, and a quantity of 
blasting powder and fuse. It was nearly dinner-time 
before the charges were loaded ready to fire off. 

The family were invited to come down and stand 
on the sand knoll under the big hemlock, at a safe 
distance from the log, and see it “ touched off.” 
The pieces of fuse were lighted, and then the boys 
and Dennis ran as fast as they could and joined the 
little group on the knoll. The fire flashed and 
smoked and sputtered, but made steady progress. 
When the fire reached the charges, there was a pause 
for a few seconds ; then there was a grand explo- 
sion, the huge log rising up in the air, whipping over, 
and falling back clove straight through in two piec- 


Bobby's Shirts. 


es. How they all scampered down to them — the 
girls as well as the boys ! And how they all won- 
dered and exclaimed when they saw Bobby’s multitu- 
dinous shirts lying about in little mildewed wads ! 

Bobby was as much surprised as anyone, you may 
be sure, and listened with open mouth and staring 
eyes when Jared and Jason related the story of his 
midnight exploit. 

“ Now, girls,” said Aunt Louisa, “ I hope this will 
be a lesson to you, and teach you that a boy will 
never grow up to be a strong, healthy, fearless, use- 
ful, manly man unless he is allowed to indulge moder- 
ately in innocent boyish sports.” 

Well, the girls did realize that their pet brother had, 
all this time, been in much greater danger from his 
sleep-walking than he would have been had he been 
suffered to learn to swim and indulge in other recrea- 
tions with his mates in the day time. 

And, truly, never again was Bobby known to walk 
and “ carry on ” in his sleep, after he was allowed to 
have some “ real fun ” instead of “ make-believe.’' 


HER LITTLE LIFE. 


W E all remember that Wednesday afternoon. 

We Ashbel children had good cause to re- 
member it. 

[You see it was our grand-uncle Ted who was tell- 
ing the story, and we were all down on the rocks by 
the river, listening.] 

Marion, had taken it into her head to trim the 
play-house with georgeous sun flowers. She was 
hanging the gray roof and the red chimney and 
the low eaves with the great yellow things. Louis 
was reading — he usually was. He glanced up to say 
to Marion, “ It’s like Katherine’s house in the Ger- 
man tale, when she bought out the two tin peddlers.” 

“ I remember. And she hung pails, and pans and 
basins all over everything.” And Marion aimed a big 
brown-and-yellow disk at the top point of the light- 


Her Little Life . 


ning-rod. She missed three times and then succeeded. 
“There, I knew I could,” she cried triumphantly. 

Our play-house. It was a real out-door house, 
though the smallest one, I dare say, that you ever saw. 
It had been a doctor’s office once, and it stood by 
itself out on the side hill among the apple trees. I 
used to think in those days — I still think in these 
days — that it was the jolliest place a lot of young- 
sters ever had to get up a good time in. We were 
allowed to make all the noise we pleased out there, 
and we made a great deal. There were but five of 
us. Neighbors who knew us only by the hearing of 
the ear supposed there were fifty. 

The play-house had two rooms hardly bigger than 
closets. One of them had shelves up and down the 
back side. In the doctor’s time these had been filled 
with jars and vials and messes. One corner still 
smelled of creosote. We divided the shelves. Mar- 
ion, who was the oldest and tallest, had the top one. 
She arranged it in a suite of rooms with festoons of 
rose-pink gauze for her dolls. Marion was a good 
house-keeper, so Dollydom was usually in order. The 
next shelf was Bruno’s, and looked like ruin let loose 
all the time. He had a cage for live stock, and so 
his small beasts and bugs and things were caged or 
run at large on that shelf. Lou kept his books on 


Her Little Life. 


the one below, and there was open war in the camp 
sometimes : for example, one night when old Pink-eye, 
Bruno’s white mouse, with her fifteen children broke 
jail and fell upon Lou’s volumes of Grimm, and nib- 
bled out the whole entrancing story of “Snow- 
White.” The shelf below held my water-wheel, and 
steam-engines, etc., while the short, lower one was 
Daphne’s. Daphne was the youngest, a little fat, 
jolly thing in those times. She had on her shelf a 
box for her puppy, and a basket for her cat, and as 
the two didn’t agree she put up a big volume of Fla- 
vel’s sermons for a fence between them. 

I’ve told you enough for you to imagine the play- 
house. What you never can imagine is the fun we 
had in it. Papa and mamma and the grandpapas 
and grandmammas. We had a full double set of 
’em, not to mention one great-grandmother eighty-five 
years old, and the j oiliest one of us. All these 
charming people “liked to see young folks enjoy 
themselves ; ” and that meant making a tremendous 
noise. Why, one day we raised such a din that the 
fire company with Engine No. 3 came thundering 
down the street to our garden gate, and went away 
cross when Bruno explained that we were only play- 
ing “ The Great Fire in London,” a drama which our 
brother Lou had written, 


Her Little Life . 


Honestly, I suppose we were a precious nuisance 
to the neighborhood. I believe if there had been an 
earthquake, or a nitro-glycerine explosion, people 
would have dismissed the noise as “ nothing but those 
Ashbel children,” and would have gone about their 
business. There was one wheezy old select man who 
used to threaten us with the Kiot Act, but he never 
got to the reading of it. 

On that particular Wednesday afternoon our great- 
grandmother had come down to the play-house to 
visit us. She was now asleep in her wheeled chair in 
the corner. 

“ I believe I’ll just drop off a little, ” she had said. 
“ You need’nt try to be quiet, children. You know 
happy noises never disturb me.” 

And so the dear old creature “ dropped off ” into a 
sound sr.oozg, and never knew when Marion fastened 
a sunflower to each of her broad shoulders, nor when 
Muff crept on to her knee and went to sleep, nor 
when the old mud-turtle snuggled up against her foot 
to meditate. 

Bruno was making a small yoke out of a bit of 
ratan, Daphne and I were helping Marion with the 
sunflowers, and Lou was reading out loud, reading in 
a high key, screwing up his nose, and rolling his r’s 
prodigiously. 


Her Little Life . 


“ R - r - rats ! They fought the dogs, and killed the cats, 
And bit the babies in the cradles, 

And ate the cheese out of the vats, 

And licked the soup from the cooks’ ladles.” 

Then all at once just as Lou came to the lines, 

“ Drowning their speaking with shrieking and squeaking 
In fifty different sharps and flats,” 

there was a piteous wailing mew. Bruno had taken 
the kitten for purposes of his own, out of great 
grandmamma’s lap. 

“ Bruno, you shan’t do that ! ” cried Daphne, “ I 
won’t have my kitty yoked up with your rabbit.” 

“ O, Daffy-down-dilly, be lovely now,” answered 
Bruno as though he were putting on a poultice. What 
he was doing was to push the kitten’s head into a 
place too small for it. 

“I don’t want to be lovely. I want my cat.” 
Daphne’s foot came down with a stamp. In a rage 
she was a small tempest. “ Muff hates Bunny, and 
he is the hatefulest rabbit I ever saw. Bruno, I say ! ” 

Bruno in his smoothest tones made answer. 

“ Don’t let your angry, and so forth.” Then there 
was another mew, a scratching, a scampering, and he 
finished his sentence with, “ Ugh ! go it then, you mis- 
erable creetur ! Scat ! ” 

The kitten had taken matters into her own claws it 


Her Little Life. 


seemed, and she was off and away up the shelves. 

“ O, kitty, kitty,” screamed Daphne, “ you must no 
go up into Dollydom. Fair Rosamond thinks you are 
a roaring lion, and she’ll die of scare.” 

“ Never mind, Daffy,” said Marion good-naturedly. 
“ Rosamond isn’t at home.” 

But Muff was already on the top shelf, and her 
mistress was up after her, clinging and clinching hand 
over hand as though the shelves had been a lad- 
der. 

“ You monkey,” said Bruno, laughing. 

I remember I stopped with a sunflower in my hand 
to watch her. She had captured the kitten, and was 
coming down ; Lou was saying, “ Let’s rig up a tight 
rope for her to dance ; ” we were all looking on in 
admiration when suddenly — we never knew how or 
why — there was a misstep, a crash of shelves and a 
fall! 

“We’re in for it now,” said Bruno as he saw Mis- 
tress Pink-eye and her family scattering in sixteen 
different directions. 

“ What is it ? ” asked gran’mamma, waking, and 
Marion ran to Daphne. 

“ I’ll help you up, Dilly. Did it hurt you much ? ” 

But Daphne only moaned, and begged us not to 
touch her, and Marion turned white. 


Her Little Life. 


“Bruno, run and call mamma. She is hurt.” And 
then we all were frightened. It wasn’t much of a fall 
as we measured things. I had tumbled out of a sec- 
ond-story window once, and hadn’t minded it; and 
Daffy herself had broken her collar-bones so many 
times that she made nothing of that ; but this must 
be something different. We knew it must be when 
we saw how she lay there a little pale creature gasp- 
ing and moaning. Mamma too looked frightened 
when she came in with papa. They two together 
took Daphne up though she screamed fearfully, and 
then we followed them, a scared, silent procession, 
down through the orchard and across the garden. 

The house was hushed and strange that evening. 
There were doctors coming and going, and the door 
of mamma’s room was shut, and all we knew was 
what papa told Marion, “ Daphne had injured her 
spine.” 

“ The spine is the back, isn’t it, Marion ? ” I asked ; 
and when she said, “ Why, of course,” I felt snubbed 
and sleepy. It rained I remember, and I took Muff 
and went off to bed without a lamp and wished I had 
been born a purring cat and not a wretch of a boy 
whose sister had “ injured her spine.” 

It was a day or two after, that Marion got us all 
together down in the play-house and showed us a 


Her Little Life. 

paper tacked upon the wall. It was written all over 
and headed with : 

“ Because our sister Daphne is sick and cannot 
bear noise, therefore : 

“ Resolved , , that we must not do these things. Slam 
doors, run up and down stairs, whistle, sing or talk 
loud in the house. We must not shout anywhere on 
the grounds, we — ” 

“ Look here, Marry,” said Bruno when she had 
read so far. “ We mustn’t, and we mustn’t, and we 
mustn’t ! I say it’s hard lines if a fellow can’t scream 
outside the house. Why, I suppose I can’t turn a 
sommerset over the foot-board of my own bed, 
perhaps ? ” 

“ Indeed, you can’t, Bruno. It would jar the whole 
house. And Dally can’t bear a jar.” 

“ O, bah ! I was sick myself once. Measles, the 
worst kind, and the whole pack of you made just as 
big a hullaboo as usual.” 

“ But this is different,” answered Marion patiently. 
“ Doctor Innis says Daffy has hurt her nerves in some 
way. I don’t know what that means, but this is true, 
she can hear every little sound, like the clock ticking 
away down in the dining-room. And she can’t bear 
the odor of a flower anywhere about, and when kitty 
sat on the sofa and washed her face, it put her into 


* > > 


Her Little Life. 


such an agony that they had to carry Muff away. It 
is awful, the pain she suffers, not like measles at all.” 

“ Well, then I’ll tell you what, Marion. We shall 
have to play still plays, and you — I’m thinking you’ll 
be obliged to talk less.” 

“Yes, I shall. Papa told me so this morning. 
Not a bad thing either,” she added with sudden 
humility. 

I believe Marion and every one of us began to see, 
even then, that we must try to overcome our faults, 
try to be quiet instead of noisy, gentle instead of 
rough ,for another* s sake. 

“ Tomorrow will be Ted’s birth-day,” said mamma, 
a week later. Ted was myself you know. “ If 
Daphne sleeps well to-night, you may all go into her 
room in the morning.” 

It was a clear day, the sun brightening up every- 
thing out doors and in. We mustered in the library. 
Mamma came down looking rather pale, winking sus- 
piciously, and tucking her pocket handkerchief out 
of sight. 

“Now you are not to speak, you know. Just look 
at her and come quietly out again. Are the shoes all 
off? Look cheerful.” 

So every one of us smiled a forlorn little smile, and 
followed mamma. An open door, an orderly room 



Poor Daphne! 












Her Little Life . 


with squares of sunshine lying out on the carpet, in 
the middle of the chamber a white bed, white pillows, 
and a pair of great blue eyes looking out of a thin 
white face — these were what we saw. Those eyes 
and that pale face were our Daphne. 

Well, we filed in. Every one had carried her a 
little gift. Marion went first with a pot of maiden- 
hair fern, Bruno had his hands full of juniper sprays, 
because the red berries were so pretty ; and Louis 
carried a bright purple stone which he had found. 
As for me, I took in, of all things in the world, a pair 
of new boots. I was sure Daffy would like to see 
anything which was so beautiful to me. 

But when I saw her so sad and strange, plump 
cheeks and dimples and pink all gone, I forgot my 
boots, forgot orders, forgot everything but my grief. 
I just dropped down on the carpet beside the small 
bed and blurted out : 

“ O, you poor old Dilly, I never loved you so hard 
in all my life. Never ! ” and then I had just time to 
snatch the corner of the counterpane and kiss it, 
when I was caught up and hustled out of the room 
by the nurse Celia. 

“ Master Ted, I must say ’t I’m ashamed of ye ! ” 
said Celia, down stairs. 

I was ashamed of myself, and I said so, and added 


Her Little Life . 


“But I couldn’t help it, not if you were to kill me, 
Celia,” and I sobbed. 

“ Kill you . Taint a question o’ killin’ you. It’s 
poor dear Miss Daffy ’t you’ve got to think on.” 

But it was a great comfort to me afterwards that I 
did kiss the counterpane. 

“ I wonder if she is going to die,” said Louis. 

No, Daphne did not die ; but she never stood on 
her feet again. From that time forward she was 
chained to that bed there in our mother’s room, the 
long years through, always there, and always the same 
patient suffering little creature, how suffering and 
how patient we none of us knew until we grew to 
learn in ourselves what patience and suffering really 
meant. 

So we minded our resolutions written and posted 
in the play-house; we learned still plays, and O, we 
learned a great many things. By and by we used to 
go and amuse Daphne by playing in her room, and 
then we found out how to talk low, without whisper- 
ing, to laugh without shouting, to walk quietly without 
tiptoeing, and to give Daffy her medicine without 
clicking spoons and glasses. Watch your uncle the 
doctor in a sick room, and see how gently he does 
everything. That is what I mean. But Bruno was 
an awkward sort of fellow, always stumbling against 


Her Little Life . 

the furniture like a great tumble-bug, before Daphne 
was hurt. 

As for me, I had an Apollyon of a temper 
in those days, and was fond of flinging myself on the 
carpet, and banging my tough skull against the wall 
when 1 was vexed. This wouldn’t do under the new 
dispensation of course, and so I remember once or 
twice running a mile to the woods for the sake of 
kicking a certain steady old birch tree in order to 
vent my rage. But that didn’t last long. A mile 
race shook the blood out of my head into my heels, 
and improved my state of mind. 

We had days of going off to the woods, all of us, 
and having a noisy time after the old fashion, but 
somehow we were always glad to get back home 
again, and go softly up to Daphne’s room. It was a 
sort of shrine to us, a little bit of heaven with the 
dust and the wrong doing all shut out. 

Well, we grew older and were sent away to school 
and to college, and still Daphne lay those summer 
days and winter days just the same, only that it was 
a longer bed now, and the face on the pillows wasn’t 
a child’s face any more, but the eyes were those of a 
young girl, and O, with such a look in them ! Such 
an expression of endurance and love, — of suffering 
put down — of course I can give you no idea of it, 


Her Little Life. 


but I always thought when I looked into Daphne’s 
eyes of the words, “To him that overcometh.” 

After I went to college and got away from home 
and from Daphne, I wasn’t — well, I wasn’t the best 
kind of a fellow, you see. [Uncle Ted looked down, 
then raised his eyes to Aunt Amy ; that’s his wife who 
smiled across at him from her seat under the old 
willow, and he went on.] I got into some scrapes 
and finally they sent me home for a while. Don’t 
you think I hated to go up into Daphne’s room then? 
O, how I detested myself ! But she, the little white 
saint that she was, she put out her two hands to me 
saying, “ And now, dear, you’re going to tell me all 
about it ? ” So I dropped down on my knees by her 
bed and told her everything, and then — she said a 
few words to me — and — well I shall not forget 
them in this world. 

There isn’t much more to tell. There came a year 
when she grew weaker, and whiter, and gentler, than 
ever. When Bruno came home from Europe where 
he had been in a medical school, he looked very grave 
about Daphne. We were sitting beside her one 
night — it was just after I graduated, and after 
Marion was married, and she said something in her 
sweet way about having been only a trouble all these 
years, and Marion cried. 


Her Little Life. 


“ O, Daffy, don’t. Why, we owe everything to you.” 
And Bruno added : 

“ Never say that again, dear. Just think what a set 
of young Apaches we were when you took us in hand. 
I’m nothing to boast of, but if there’s the making of 
a man in me I’ve you to thank for it.” 

“ 1 truly don’t know how your father and I could 
have brought up these children without your help,” 
spoke mamma. 

I was sitting with Daphne’s hand in mine. It was 
an August night something like this, I remember, with 
the clematis in bloom down by the river, and a new 
moon just setting over Graylock. I saw the eyelids 
droop lower, and just as the dusk was lost in the 
dark I said quietly, “ She is asleep.” 

Bruno stepped to the bed, bent over and listened. 
Then he touched her wrist and instantly glanced 
with startled eyes across at our mother. 

“ O, mamma ! ” he cried, as though he had been a 
little boy, you know, and not a grown-up doctor. “ O, 
mamma ! ” 

Uncle Ted’s voice stopped short here. Then he 
sprang up and walked away from us into the shrub- 
bery. The next minute Aunt Amy was gone too, and 
presently we heard the unlocking of the boat at its 
moorings below us. Then we saw it slide out from 


Her Little Life. 


the shadow of the wooded shore into the wide levels 
of the moonlight beyond, and we could hear Aunt 
Amy’s voice singing something low and sweet. 

No one spoke for a little — then, after a while, Kitty, 
our four-year-old, drew a comical sigh and said 
seriously : 

“O, I’m so glad that bad little boy kissed the 
counterpane.” 


A “ MIS’BLE ” DAY. 

M AMMA ! mamma Alice ! I’m mis’ble ’n lone- 
some. It’s a mis’ble day. Miss Davis has 
gone and hided, Dicky won’t sing and Betsey is frac- 
tious. Why wasn’t I two little boys ’stead of one ? 
Then I could play with the other one and be chifful 
all the time. ’ Tisn’t any fun playing with yourself 
when you are the same little boy. If I had been 
two twins what would you have named the other of 
me, and which one of us would you have loved 
best ? ” 

Poor mamma Alice ! It was a “ mis’ble day ” in- 
deed. A cold easterly storm beating against the win- 
dows on one side, and Trottikins’ salt tears dripping 
down upon the sill on the other. 

She looked up from her sewing and across the 
room at the small and somewhat roly-poly figure o. 
her son, and sighed, — sighed most dolefully ; for it 
217 


A “Mis' Me" Day. 


was made evident by every word, look and motion of 
that small individual, that he was not only “ mis’ble an’ 
lonesome,” but that he was thoroughly and wretchedly 
cross. 

“ Trottikins,” she said gently, “why don’t you play 
with your Noah’s Ark ? Bring it here by me and I 
will play with you.” 

“ I don’t like No Zark. The sheep are as big as 
the elefants, and the paint all scrubbed off the peo- 
ple’s faces when I put ’em in a Deluge in the wash- 
bowl the other day. I wish I had something new to 
play with. I wish I had a little baby sister like 
Harry Colbron’s. I wish I could put on my rub- 
boots ’n go ’n splosh ’round. What’s the use o’ hav- 
ing rub-boots ’n keeping ’em in the shoe-closet all 
the time ? If you had rub-boots, mamma Alice, you’d 
want to wear ’em some, too, ’n not have ’em all crack 
up with dryness ! ” 

Mamma Alice looked at the little figure again. 
Such a disconsolate little figure as it was with the 
snarl of string hanging out of one pocket of the com- 
ical little short-legged trousers, the wrinkles on the 
white forehead and the tear-streaks on the smooth 
cheeks! (Trottikins has the peculiarity of always 
crying grimy tears. ) Such a pitiful little figure with 
the strip of red flannel around its throat ! 



“It’s a mis’ble day! ” 


















































A “ Mis' bZe” Day. 


“Trottikins,” she said, “I would much rather that 
the boots should ‘all crack up with dryness/ than 
that my little boy’s throat should become worse. 
Come here and sit down by me and let me tell you 
about ‘Jack and the Bean-stalk.” 

But Trottikins looked at her sidewise under his 
long eye-lashes and was obdurate. 

“ I don’t want to hear ’bout Jack. I don’t want to 
hear any stories. I don’t feel story-hungry to-day. 
I don’t want anything there is in this whole house. 
I want it to clear off so’t I can go out ’n play. I 
think it’s real mean, I do ! ” 

“ Trottikins ! ” 

One of Trottikins’ little shoes came against the wall 
with startling force as he made that last statement, 
and mamma Alice’s blue eyes gazed at him very 
gravely and sorrowfully. 

“ Where is my good, gentle, little boy gone this 
morning?” she said. “I am sure he was with me 
when I first awoke ; but now I don’t see him any- 
where, and a naughty little spirit has come to take 
his place and make his mamma’s heart ache. Tell 
me ! where has my little boy gone ? ” 

“ I guess I’ll go and see Betsey,” said Trottikins, 
evading the question and walking very straight across 
the room, “ p’raps she’s got good-natured again by 


A “Mis’ Me” Day. 


this time. Anyway, I guess she’ll be more p’lite to 
me ’n you are. You called me names, you did 
mamma Alice, and papa Fred told me the very other 
day that ’twas the unp’litest thing anybody could do 
to call names, and I guess you’ll feel or’fly sorry 
bout it by-’n-by.” And so the door closed behind him, 
and mamma Alice was left alone. 

Presently a loud burst of weeping was heard from 
the kitchen, together with Betsey’s voice raised in 
earnest expostulation. Mamma Alice rose from her 
chair with a wearied little sigh and went out to dis- 
cover the cause of the outcry ; and, on reaching the 
kitchen door, she was met by Betsey holding Trotti- 
kins by the shoulder, — and such a Trottikins ! Were 
it not that tears had made a portion of his face visi- 
ble, mamma Alice would have had hard work to rec- 
ognize her child, for from head to foot he was as 
white as flour could make him. 

“I just took my eyes off him for one minute, 
ma’am,” explained Betsey, “and the next thing I 
knew he had whipped into the pantry and was in 
the flour barrel head first, with just his feet sticking 
out.” 

“ I was just a-trying to reach some flour with a 
spoon, to make a cake for Miss Davis,” said the cul- 
prit gaspingly, wiping away his doughy tears with his 



s 


4 




[P"v 





Just a-trying to reach some flour with a spoon 



A “ Mis'ble ” Day. 


floury knuckles, “ ’n ’twas so far down I had to get 
up in a chair, ’n the chair slided away. That’s how 
’twas, mamma, ’n Betsey ought to have taken better 
care ’o me ’n then I shouldn’t have done it.” 

And then mamma Alice, with another sigh for the 
sewing she so wanted to finish that day, devoted the 
next half hour to the task of metamorphosing this 
doleful and altogether disheartening little image be- 
fore her, into her own rosy pretty Trottikins again. 
And to Trottikins’ credit be it said, that, being for 
the time completely cast down and subdued by his 
misfortune, he endured the dusting, washing, and 
combing and brushing which fell to his lot, without 
a murmur or complaint. 

“ Now, Trottimus,” said his mamma Very seriously, 
when the last trace of his misfortune had been re- 
moved from him, “ I am going to put you up-stairs in 
my chamber for half an hour, because you disobeyed 
me and went into Betsey’s pantry where I have told 
you never to go.” And so she took one chubby hand 
in hers, and very slowly and sorrowfully they went up- 
stairs together. 

“ I will ring your little bell when the half hour has 
passed,” said mamma Alice as she closed the door 
“ and then if you feel like being a good boy you may 
come down.” And so she left him. 


A “ Mis' We” Day. 


The half hour passed very wearily and slowly to 
mamma Alice, for it always makes her heart ache 
to punish Trottikins, even when he is naughtiest. 
But at last the thirty minutes were gone and she went 
to the door and rung the bell, — but no Trottikins ap- 
peared. Again she rung it, then again ; and then a 
little voice said pleasantly : 

“ You needn’t mind ’bout ringing it again, mamma 
Alice. I am coming down presently, but I’m pretty 
busy just now.” 

“ Busy ? ” What could the little mischief be doing ? 
Mamma Alice did not stop to think, but ran up-stairs 
as quickly as possible — and what a sight it was which 
met her eyes ! 

On the pretty little Persian rug before her bureau 
sat Trottikins, his face glowing with a triumphant 
smile behind the bars and blotches of darkness which 
ornamented it, — with mamma Alice’s bottle of 
French Dressing in one hand, and the dripping 
sponge in the other. 

“ I thought I’d just fits my shoes a little,” he said, 
in no way discomfited by her sudden appearance; 
“but the blacking runs ’round or’fly, ’n I guess I’ve 
got a little on my stockings, too.” 

And then mamma Alice sat down on the floor in 
despair; for, not only had Trottikins got a good deal 


A “Mis'ble” Day . 


more than “ a little ” on his pretty striped stockings, 
but every article of furniture and raiment within his 
reach was onamented with it, in splashes and dabs 
and spots and streaks and spatters, and Trottikins, 
from the tips of his little pink ears to the toes of his 



What a sight it was which met her eyes! 


ruined stockings, looked as though he had been in- 
dulging in a shower-bath of ink. 

When papa Fred came home at noon, he found 
mamma lying on the sofa in the sitting-room, with the 

m 


A“ Mis' Me” Day. 


blinds closed and the curtains down, and her head 
bound up tightly in a large white handkerchief, while 
Trottikins sat beside her, quiet and penitent, in the 
character of chief nurse. 

“ I’ve plagued mamma or’fly,” he announced with 
becoming gravity and contrition. “ First, I whited 
myself, and then I blacked myself, and then I split 
her head. Betsey said I should if I didn’t stop cry- 
ing. But I’m or’fly sorry, papa Fred, ’n I’m going 
to be a good boy till it heals together again.” 

And so papa Fred and Trottikins had a very solemn 
and quiet dinner together ; and then papa went back 
down town, and Trottikins, reinforced by Miss Davis 
who had been discovered cosily sleeping in Betsey’s 
clothes basket, sat down again beside his mamma and 
was still for fully two minutes. At the end of that 
time he grew restless, and gazing around in search of 
some employment he espied the great cut-glass co- 
logne bottle which careless papa Fred, after bathing 
his mamma’s aching head, had left within reach of his 
boy’s little fingers. 

“ I guess I’ll put some more o’ that on mamma’s 
hankfish,” said Trottikins very softly to Miss Davis ; 
and, sliding her out of his lap, he took the precious 
bottle in his two chubby hands. 

Mamma Alice was lying half-asleep, with her eyes 



Down upon 


mamma Alice’s prostrate form 


•* 


A “Mis’ Me” Day. 


covered by a fold of the bandage around her head, 
and did not notice Trottikins’ low remark; neither 
did she know when he mounted upon his stool in or- 
der to reach her more easily, and stood holding the 
bottle close to his breast with one arm, while with the 
other hand he struggled with the ground glass stop- 
per. Miss Davis was the only one beside himself 
aware of his intentions or movements, and she pre- 
served a discreet silence as she stood beside him look- 
ing up at him curiously. 

The stopper was obstinate, as ground-glass stoppers 
are apt to be, and Trottikins’ little fingers were not 
very strong. For a few minutes it seemed as though 
his efforts would result only in failure ; but at last, the 
little fingers gave a suddenly effective jerk, the stop- 
per came out most unexpectedly, and, at the same 
moment, the stool under Trottikins’ feet slipped 
treacherously away, and down upon mamma Alice’s 
prostrate form came Trottikins like an avalanche, — 
cologne-bottle and all, — while the stopper fell right 
between Miss Davis’ green eyes and caused her to 
emit a sudden howl of surprise and anguish as she 
darted into the shelter of the regions of the sofa, 
there to wonder at and meditate upon her young mas- 
ter’s suddenly hostile proceedings toward her unof- 
fending and dignified self. 












. 


























A “ Mis'ble ” Day. 


A moment later mamma Alice, having partially re- 
covered her breath, sat up very straight, dripping and 
dishevelled, and gazed hopelessly at her drenched 
and unhappy son who, — still grasping the cologne- 
bottle tightly, albeit it was totally empty and upside 
down, — stood before her. 

“ Frederick Malcolm Poindexter ! ” she began in a 
voice tremulous with emotion, — and then she stopped 
suddenly ; he did look so very wet and wretched, and 
after all, he evidently meant to do her good instead 
of evil, and so she very gently took the empty bottle 
from him and sent him out into the kitchen to sit by 
the fire and dry his clothes ; and then, after repairing 
as best she might the damage done to herself by the 
unexpected flood, retired into the folds of her hand- 
kerchief once more and tried to forget herself and 
her worries in sleep. 

An account of what Trottikins did in that kitchen 
that afternoon would fill a volume. 

He bumped his head climbing up on the table ; he 
burnt his fingers experimenting with the stove draft ; 
he accidentally dropped Miss Davis into a pail of 
water, and then upset the whole over Betsey’s clean 
floor ; he got some pepper in his eyes in a dispute 
with Betsey concerning the possessorship of the pep- 
per-box ; he sat down in the egg-basket which Betsey, 


A “Mis' Me” Day. 


for one short minute, had left on the floor, but which, 
fortunately, had only four eggs in it at the time; he 
set the new whisk-broom on fire, brushing the grate 
with it while Betsey was gone for some cpal ; and he 
fretted, and he fussed, and he teased, and he cried — 
oh, how he cried ! — until he was, as Betsey declared, 
“ enough to try the patience of a saint ! until, at 
last, night came and he was borne up-stairs in papa 
Fred’s strong arms. 

“Dear little mischief,” said mamma Alice softly, 
when the prayers were said and the heavy eyelids had 
closed slowly over the dark eyes, and she bent to 
kiss him. 

And then the eyes came open with a snap, and a 
small, imperative voice demanded : 

“ Mamma ! mamma Alice ! tell me about Metax ! 
Was he a great giant with great big awful eyes and 
teeth as big as our front door? Tell me about him, 
mamma Alice ; ’n was he or’fly cross ? Betsey said 
to-day, that I was ‘ crossn’ ’n Metax ! ’ and then when 
I asked her who Metax was, she only laughed at me.” 

But before mamma Alice could explain, the heavy 
lids conquered the bright eyes again and this time 
the victory was complete; and Trottikins lay sound 
asleep with a smile on his face, — and the “ mis’ble ” 
day was over. 


’M ANDY’S QUILTING -PARTY. 



ONG ago, “ so long ago ’tis like a dream,” there 


J -/ lived somewhere away up among the green hills 

of Vermont a little girl whose name was Amanda 
Brown. She was, at the time of which I am going to 
tell you, about eleven years old, old enough to have 
considerable sense ; she had that, but she had consid- 
erable mischief in her composition to counter-balance 
it, and was always getting herself into trouble. She 
was remarkably pretty, with a bright, beautiful com- 
plexion, warm, fun-loving brown eyes, and soft, close- 
curling hair. She had, no doubt, been told often 
that people thought her pretty, and like many other 
little girls who have been called pretty, put on airs 
accordingly. Little ’Mandy Brown was a favorite 
everywhere ; all her little pranks and capers were over- 
looked or laughed at just because they were kind- 


* Mandy’ s Quilting- Party. 

hearted, sweet-tempered ’Mandy Brown’s capers and 
pranks. 

She had several sisters and three brothers. In those 
days little boys and girls often had very many broth- 
ers and sisters ; quite enough to have had a nice little 
party all by themselves every day in the year. Lit- 
tle ’Mandy, dear demure piece of mischief, was often the 
occasion of much mortification of pride to the older 
' girls, who looked upon her as very much beneath 
them in worldly wisdom, because of her age ; and I 
am very sorry indeed to have to confess that sometimes 
our pretty, brown-eyed little ’Mandy was made to feel 
by her own sisters that she was a little girl, while they 
were big ones ; that she was to be “ kept in place,” 
wherever that was, and not expect to keep pace with 
them at all. She rebelled in her own little heart tre- 
mendously at all this ; nobody knew the storms of in- 
dignation that passed through her brain at being put 
off, nay, almost pushed off, because she was a little girl. 
Nobody ever dreamed of the ambition slumbering in 
her soul ; if they had, the knowledge might have saved 
them some trouble. 

Her mamma alone understood her little girl’s pecul- 
iarities ; and although she always gave the older ones 
all their due advantages, she never overlooked the 
younger ones, nor was she ever asleep to the ambi- 


5 Mandy's Quilting-Party. 


tions of Amanda. When the older ones were invited 
away, mamma often took ’Mandy with her to compen- 
sate for the coveted invitation; and upon one occasion 
took her to a quilting-party. 

In those days, making a quilt was quite a grand af- 
fair ; ladies puzzled their heads for weeks over the 
beautiful patterns they were to make out of thousands 
of little pieces of calico which they had been collect- 
ing for months ; and after all the pieces were put to- 
gether into one beautiful whole, then came the grand 
work of spreading it out, placing the cotton, and 
quilting it. 

We have grand receptions now, — balls and 
parties wherein to meet our friends ; just as elegant 
and fashionable was it then to meet one’s friends at 
the “ quilting,” lend a helping hand to the pretty new 
quilt and assist at the social entertainment which fol- 
lowed. 

So little Amanda went one day with her mother to 
a quilting-party. She listened to the gossip of the 
day, watched all the “ lines ” and “ figures ” drawn by 
the old, experienced quilters, and made up her mind, 
as she sat in a quiet corner by herself, about the beau- 
ties of quilting. Being always a little girl, or being 
always considered as such, was something she was not 
going to be contented with, not she ! She’d let peo- 


Mandy’s Quilting- Party. 


pie know she was not always going to be set up in 
one corner of the house and talked about by the old 
ladies ! But supper came, and supper pleases little 
children ; it was only second in importance to the 
quilt ; it was the “ grande finale ” to the evening’s en- 
tertainment. 

Amanda was very quiet on her way home ; so quiet 
that her mother became anxious, thinking that she 
might not have enjoyed herself, and being rather sus- 
picious of her quiet moods always. 

Amanda vouchsafed no particular remarks about 
the quilting-party, except to make just one very sim- 
ple remark : 

“ Mamma, why don’t you have a quilting as well as 
Mrs. French ? I’m sure our house is as large as hers, 
and we can go right about patching up pieces, and Jo- 
anna can put the cotton in.” 

“ Well, dear, when we are all ready and the pieces 
sewed, we’ll talk about it.” 

“/like to talk about it now,” said our little girl ; 
but withal she thought a great deal more than she 
said. 

Amanda, with three sisters and one brother, went 
to a school which was a long way from home, quite 
two miles. They started in the morning, bright and 
early, with two baskets containing dinner, I think 


’ Mandy's Quilting-Party. 


tions of Amanda. When the older ones were invited 
away, mamma often took ’Mandy with her to compen- 
sate for the coveted invitation ; and upon one occasion 
took her to a quilting-party. 

In those days, making a quilt was quite a grand af- 
fair ; ladies puzzled their heads for weeks over the 
beautiful patterns they were to make out of thousands 
of little pieces of calico which they had been collect- 
ing for months ; and after all the pieces were put to- 
gether into one beautiful whole, then came the grand 
work of spreading it out, placing the cotton, and 
quilting it. 

We have grand receptions now, — balls and 
parties wherein to meet our friends ; just as elegant 
and fashionable was it then to meet one’s friends at 
the “ quilting,” lend a helping hand to the pretty new 
quilt and assist at the social entertainment which fol- 
lowed. 

So little Amanda went one day with her mother to 
a quilting-party. She listened to the gossip of the 
day, watched all the “ lines ” and “ figures ” drawn by 
the old, experienced quilters, and made up her mind, 
as she sat in a quiet corner by herself, about the beau- 
ties of quilting. Being always a little girl, or being 
always considered as such, was something she was not 
going to be contented with, not she ! She’d let peo- 


’ Handy’ s Quilting- Party. 


pie know she was not always going to be set up in 
one corner of the house and talked about by the old 
ladies ! But supper came, and supper pleases little 
children ; it was only second in importance to the 
quilt ; it was the “ grande finale ” to the evening’s en- 
tertainment. 

Amanda was very quiet on her way home ; so quiet 
that her mother became anxious, thinking that she 
might not have enjoyed herself, and being rather sus- 
picious of her quiet moods always. 

Amanda vouchsafed no particular remarks about 
the quilting-party, except to make just one very sim- 
ple remark : 

“ Mamma, why don’t you have a quilting as well as 
Mrs. French ? I’m sure our house is as large as hers, 
and we can go right about patching up pieces, and Jo- 
anna can put the cotton in.” 

“ Well, dear, when we are all ready and the pieces 
sewed, we’ll talk about it.” 

“/like to talk about it now,” said our little girl ; 
but withal she thought a great deal more than she 
said. 

Amanda, with three sisters and one brother, went 
to a school which was a long way from home, quite 
two miles. They started in the morning, bright and 
early, with two baskets containing dinner. I think 


’ Mandy’s Quilting- Party . 


no pleasure of their after life could equal their enjoy- 
ment of those beautiful summer mornings. Often 
they overtook other scholars, on their way too, with 
books and dinner. 

“ What has got into ’Mandy’s head lately, I won- 
der ? ” says Joanna, the oldest. 

“ O, some of her capers, I’ll warrant,” says kind- 
hearted Mercy. 

“ Better let her alone till her own time for disclos- 
ures or we may all get mixed up,” says John, break- 
ing off some huckleberry bushes for the girls. ’Man- 
dy ran along eating her berries as she picked them, 
her bonnet hanging about her neck, her flushed face 
betraying her to be in a dangerously thoughtful mood. 

“ Mrs. Bohannon says ’Mandy is the prettiest child 
in the neighborhood, but ‘ so queer ’ she can’t under- 
stand her.” 

“Just like Mrs. Bohannon ! She can’t praise any 
one without a ‘ but ’ or ‘ if ’ to take away all the good 
she pretends to say,” says John, bringing up such a 
large bundle of berry-bushes that they all concluded 
to stop a few moments and pick them into their bas- 
kets to be relieved of the bushes. 

John always took ’Mandy’s part, always covered up 
her “ scrapes ” and lightened her troubles, — always 
her champion, and she always his favorite. 


’ Mandy' s Quilting-Party . 


“ I suppose ” says he earnestly, “ that what she 
calls ‘ queer * is ’Mandy’s being so much smarter than 
Keziah and the rest of the Bohannons.” 

“Yes,” says Mercy, “Miss Morse says she is the 
smartest scholar in school.” 

“Well, you know,” says Joanna, taking a careful 
look around to see that her little busy sister is not 
within hearing, “ you know ’Mandy does do so many 
things to mortify us in company ! She thinks she is 
as old as the rest of us and can do just what we do. 
Why, when George Blakely called by for me to go to 
singing-school the other day, I came into the parlor 
and there she sat with my new silk dress on, so long 
she couldn’t take one step in it without holding it up, 
and fanning herself with my new goose-feather fan.” 

John nearly laughed all the berries off the bushes, 
and Mercy quite tipped over the dinner-basket. 

“ That isn’t half so bad as she served me,” says 
Mercy sobering at the recollection. “ She thought 
mother ought to have bought her the new shawl in- 
stead of me, and Sunday morning when I was getting 
ready for church my shawl was missing, and so was 
’Mandy, and I went to church in my old one, with fear 
and trembling, because I knew. she was responsible 
for it, and when I got there, she was sitting up as 


’ Mandy’s Quilting- Party . 


straight as a statue and as innocent, with my shawl 
on, and reading the hymn-book.” 

“ What did mother do ? ” 

“ Why, nothing, of course, ’cause ’twas ’Mandy ; if 
I had done it, or Mary or Martha or Abby, I guess 
something would have been done.” 

Mercy tried very hard to look merciful over her 
little sister’s offences, but it is not half so easy to be 
merciful over our own trials as over other’s. 

All the berries were picked and made quite a des- 
sert for their dinner, so they trotted on again towards 
school, but sister Amanda was nowhere to be seen ; 
she had been making good speed while the others 
were wasting time talking about her. When they 
arrived at school the scholars were all in place, in or- 
der, and the school was commencing morning prayers. 
Their first thought was for their little sister, but she 
was in her seat, rosy and innocent as usual. To-day 
was the last day of school for a week ; Miss Ruth 
Morse had engaged to teach in another town, and the 
new teacher would not commence immediately. John 
did not notice particularly, being with the boys, but 
the two older girls wondered during recess at the ex- 
treme friendliness of the scholars ; and Mercy said, 
“ Something must be in the wind ; the girls are too 
good, by half, to-day.” Joanna thought some of them 


’ Mandy's Quilting-Party. 


must want their sums done for them, as she had no- 
ticed the same thing, and thought them, as Mercy ex- 
pressed it, “entirely too good.” 

Fate — or was it their little sister ? — decreed the 
loss of their baskets when they were ready for home. 
They searched long for them, but without success, till 
the teacher was ready to lock up and the shadows 
grew long behind the tall trees. As little sister 
never troubled her head about such things they were 
much surprised upon reaching home to find the missing 
baskets by the door-step. They had come home by 
themselves, all the other scholars, including ’Mandy, 
having left them to their search. 

“Did you bring home the baskets, Amanda ? ” 
asked John. He always called her “Amanda” when 
quite serious. 

“ Yes,” said she, trying hard to look dignified and 
to keep from saying more. With all her pranks, 
’Mandy was too brave to tell a falsehood, and as little 
could she act one. It was afterwards supposed that 
she carried home the baskets purposely to delay the 
older sisters and John behind the others. 

“Well,” says Joanna rather impatiently/* the next 
time you wish to be so obliging, just let us know 
beforehand. Why couldn’t you have told us and 
saved us all that trouble ? You know we always 


/C I 

v> 


Mandy' s Quilting- Party. 


bring them ourselves ; what on earth put it into your 
head all at once to do it ? ” And Joanna walked up to 
her as if she were going to take off her head. 

“ Don’t be so cross, Joey, dear. I can’t answer all 
your questions at once.” 

“ Mother, I do believe ’Mandy’s up to some mis- 
chief. She has been in a brown study for a week.” 

Mother took a sharp, long look at her “ queer ” lit- 
tle daughter, and then said gently, “ Well, well, Jo- 
anna, do let the child alone; she’ll come out all 
right.” 

“ Yes, I’ve no doubt she'll come out right enough ; 
if them-/ of us do we’ll be lucky — just remember 
what I tell you ! ” 

“ ’Mandy’s all right if you let her alone,” says her 
champion John. Come ’Mandy and let’s have a 
chase with old Pompey.” 

And away John and ’Mandy galloped with their old 
friend the house-dog. 

One week from that day Joanna and John were sit- 
ting on the big, flat stone in front of the house, the 
morning’s “ chores ” all done, talking over school af- 
fairs. School was to commence the next day, with 
the new teacher. Joanna and Mercy were busy 
about some sewing, but John sat idly enough, play- 
ing with old Pompey at his feet, lazy as his master. 


’ Mandy's Quilting- Party. 


Presently John exclaimed, “Look, Joanna, look down 
the road ! I do believe the whole school’s turned 
out, and all the neighborhood ! I wonder what’s up 
now ? ” 

But there was no time to talk; slowly along the 
road, some distance from the house, moved a varie- 
gated mass of humanity ; neither Joanna nor John 
could distinguish at first who or what it was. John 
shaded his eyes with his hand, and Joanna dropped 
“needle, thread, and thimble too,” and raised herself 
to the top step to get a better look. Presently she 
cried out : 

“John, it is the whole school ! ” 

Mercy ran to call mother who was folding away 
some clothes into drawers, with little “ curly head ” 
as busy as a bee helping her. John continued to 
gaze in utter astonishment and Joanna was dumb. 
Surprise parties had never been heard of then, and 
the country was so thinly settled that a crowd of peo- 
ple anywhere was surprise enough. 

“ Why, what under the canopy is the matter ? ” 
said mother, into whose mind flashed visions of acci- 
dents, funerals, or some other dreadful thing. “ John, 
go down to the gate and see what has happened.” 

But even as she spoke, a crowd of girls came up 
from the road to the gate, followed by nearly as many 


’ Mandy's Quilting- Party. 


boys. John walked down to meet the foremost, and 
although he was too well-bred to betray his utter as- 
tonishment his good breeding did not find him any 
words at all to utter. Holding out his hand, he con- 
tented himself with saying, “ Good morning, Betsey. 
Good morning, Keziah ! ” 

“ Good morning, John. Why do you keep staring 
at us so ? ” 

“ Well, I was a little taken aback to see you all 
here,” stammered John, not knowing just what to say. 

“ Why,” they said, surprised, “ why, we’ve come to 
the quilting ! ” 

“ The quilting ! ” says Joanna, aghast. 

“Yes,” says Betsey French, their nearest neighbor. 
“ We’ve come to the quilting, of course.” 

Fortunately, she was too much occupied with a 
brier which had caught on her dress to notice the con- 
sternation depicted in the faces of her entertainers, 
and she walked along leisurely, followed by the whole 
school of about sixty scholars, large and small. 

The attention of the home quartette was now called 
in another direction. ’Mandy came along, smiling 
and radiant. 

“It’s my quilting-party, mamma,” she chirruped. 
“ I ’most forgot it. Haven’t we something to quilt ? 


Mandy’s Quilting-party 









Mandy’s Quilting-Party . 


Let’s put in some aprons, mamma, if we haven’t got 
anything else, and quilt them” 

“ Quilting-party ! Aprons ! Child, what do you 
mean ? Quilting-party / ” 

Poor mamma got no further, for the same moment 
she took it all in at a glance, and like a dear, good 
mother made up her mind to meet the emergency ; 
and, without one useless word to the author of this 
“ scrape,” she went about her preparations. 

But behold the little mistress of this affair ! 

“ Good ahernoon, girls. You are all well, I hope ; 
and ready for the quilting, I see. Keziah, how do you 
do ? Take off your things here, if you please. Lo- 
rena, I am ? ■> glad, glad you have come. Let me help 
you with your bonnets. ” 

Once in the big parlor, overflowing at doors and 
windows, great was the chatter, great was the fun 
among the guests, and great was the delight of at 
least one member of the family. 

Away in the kitchen pantry, with closed doors, were 
mother, John and Joanna, putting their heads together 
to carry all this through. 

“John, for pity’s sake do go out and try to help 
‘ Mandy keep their attention till mother and I think 
what’s to be done. Do keep them entertained some- 


’ Handy’ s Quilting- Party . 

way — set them all by the ears — I don’t much care 
what.” 

John gone, Joanna burst into tears. 

“ Now, mother, I believe that girl will kill me ! 
We shall never hear the last of this to our dying day.” 
For Joanna’s and Mercy’s mates had been scrupu- 
lously invited by little ’Mandy. 

“ Well, well, we’ll do something, only we can’t stand 
here and cry about it. Call Mercy, and we’ll have a 
quilting yet.” 

“ But, mother ! oh, dear ! what shall we do ? 
Where are needles and thread for forty girls, even if 
we find something to quilt ? I’ll never, never forgive 
this caper of hers ! ” 

In about an hour, when the busy company was be- 
ginning to wonder where the quilt was, mother, with 
pleasant face, somewhat flushed, came in and smil- 
ingly invited the older girls “ to the quilt ” in the 
spare room up-stairs. 

“ My dears, we want you little ones to go out and 
enjoy yourselves in play while we ‘ Old folks ’ go to 
work,” she added. 

A quilting indeed, but without the pretty patch- 
work, had been improvised by putting together two 
sheets ; their stock of raw cotton had been exhausted 
long ago, but mother was still equal to the situation. 


’ Mandy's Quilting- Party. 


They had nice white wool ready for the winter’s spin- 
ning packed away in barrels. They had spread this 
as well as time and wool would permit, and with John’s 
help the sheets had been tacked to the quilting- 
frames — always kept by housekeepers — and here was 
the result — a pure white quilt for little ’Mandy’s own 
bed. Thread, coarse, fine, middle-sized, and all 
sizes, was wound off into little balls and given round 
to the zealous young quilters ; and needles, coarse, 
fine, middle-sized, and all sizes, were also given round. 

They were not so fortunate with the thimbles ; but 
the merry little quilters wound papers or “ rags,” 
round the merry little fingers, and all went gaily as 
“ the marriage bell.” 

And so the quilting commenced ! No one worked 
so industriously as Amanda. How her needle 
flew ! It was only equalled by her tongue. Not one 
whit did she falter in her duty. She regarded the 
family flutter outside as if it in no way concerned her. 

Dear, loving mother ! How she “ put her hand to 
the plough ! ” A basket of big red apples pacified 
the younger ones for a commencement of the after- 
noon’s fun. A neighbor had been sent for, and be- 
tween them how the doughnuts multiplied ! how the 
pies covered the tables! and how the cookies and 


5 Mandy' s Quilting-Party . 

dumplings and little round white biscuits popped into 
view every few minutes ! 

At six the quilt was done ; and a warm, soft beauty 
it was. They had it bound with strips of red flannel 
for want of a better binding ; but they all declared it 
set off the white beautifully, and all were delighted, 
even Joanna. They had quilted it in roses, dia- 
monds, leaves, and all the other fantastic shapes con- 
sidered necessary for fashionable quilting in those 
days. 

’Mandy had not once been down-stairs to inquire 
about “ refreshments,” but, calm as ever, she led the 
way when mother asked them all down into the big, 
hospitable-looking kitchen, which was nice and clean 
enough for anybody’s sitting-room, where was spread 
a most bountiful repast. 

The sun was setting in fair rosy clouds when 
the quilters bade ’Mandy and her sisters good even- 
ing and started for home. John had taken good care 
of the boys among the nests, squirrel houses, brooks, 
hiding-places about the barn, and all over the farm, 
and they all set off in great glee. Amanda, to be 
sure, felt a little disappointed that mother did not al- 
low them to stay later in the evening as they did at 
the older “ quilting bees ” ; but, this being the only 
drawback, on the whole she congratulated herself on 


’ Mandy's Quilting-Pk, ;> 


the success of her party. Indeed, none of the guests 
knew for a long time that the party had been an im- 
promptu affair. 

When mother and John and Joanna settled them- 
selves with tired fingers, hands and backs, to talk over 
the affair after the others were in bed, in spite of all 
the worry and vexation, they agreed that it had been a 
happy afternoon for all, and they were delighted with 
their unexpected quilt, which they decided should not 
be used but kept for ’Mandy when she should be a 
grown woman. 

And so it was ; and to this day three old ladies get 
together sometimes, and, talking over old times, grow 
young again over little “ ’Mandy’s quilting-party.” 


WHY DIDN’T HE CATCH A FOX? 



AM THOMPSON himself knew why very well. 


O The whole school knew, too, and that was 
the reason why Sam had a horror of the whole sub- 


ject. 


Sam lived on a hilly farm in Western Pennsylvania, 
and had peculiar opportunities for catching wood- 
chucks. Probably he had captured as many of these 
animals as any other boy who ever believed that his 
destiny was simply to fetch the cows, carry in wood, 
run on errands, and be driven around generally. 

But what glory is there in catching a woodchuck ? 
They have little, short legs, and are not particularly 
sly ; and Sam often said it was “ a poor lummix of a 
fellow ” who couldn’t catch one on a fair race in an 
open field. Anybody could find a woodchuck, and, 
if he tried, could catch it. Sam himself had reduced 
the catching of them to the dignity of a high art. He 
knew exactly how to prepare a forked stick, and pull 


Why Didn't He Catch A Fox 1 


them out of a stone pile ; he could tell to a bucket- 
full how much water it would take to drown one out 
of a hole in the ground ; and could calculate with the 
exactness of science how long it would take to start 
a fire in a hollow tree and smoke one out. Yet, to 
his mind, there was very little glory in it; “for,” said 
he, “ anybody, who isn’t a dunce, ken catch a wood- 
chuck ! ” 

He longed to catch a fox. The fox is sly and 
swift of foot, and it would be a certificate of his skill 
to catch one. He knew the Lindsay boys had traps 
set in a dozen places to catch them, but he inwardly 
despised that way of doing it. His notion of the 
business required the boy to chase the fox to his 
lodge in the depths of the woods, and then dig him 
out, drown him out, smoke him out, or pull him out 
with a forked stick. He couldn’t see for the life of 
him why a fox ought to be so smart that a good, 
shrewd boy couldn’t catch one. Yet he never had 
caught one. In fact, there wasn’t a boy in all his 
acquaintance who ever had, excepting one of the 
Lindsay boys. He had caught one in a trap, but that 
didn’t prove that the boy was smart. If it proved 
anything it only proved that foxes are not so sly as 
they have credit for being. 

Sam had put in a tiresome summer — a hot, op- 


Why Didn't He Catch A Fox ? 


pressive / Lie, — which he thought would never wear 
itself ou' The boys on the hilly farms of Western 
Pennsyh inia have a universal opinion that summer 
never g! ies off gently into autumn, but that it just 
wears e at. Indeed, there seems to be an opinion 
among hem that it would never even wear out if it 
could ' nly wear the boys out first. But then, in most 
conflv is, one side has to yield sooner or later, and as 
the be rs wouldn’t the summer had to. 

Th summer now referred to had been for Sam a 
perp' ual round of fetching the cows, running on 
errai Is, carrying wood and water, and doing things 
that lobody else would do. He believed the men in 
th' fields had formed a conspiracy against him, and 
just poured the water out. If they didn’t, how was it 
possible for so few men to drink so much water ? A 
hundred times he wished he was a steam-engine — a 
ightning-express. “ Then,” said he, “ I betchee they 
wouldn’t always be sayin’, * What made you stay so 
long ? ’ ” 

But the summer wore out at last, autumn came, 
and was now fast gliding into winter. The buckwheat 
was threshed, and Sam had got the dust of it well out 
of his nose and eyes and ears and hair ; the potatoes 
were dug, and he was through stooping over the bas- 
ket to pick them up ; the turnips were pulled, and his 



HE GOT DOWN ON HIS HANDS AND KNEES 






















































































































- 































Why Didn't He Catch A Fox 1 

back was nearly well again ; and the district school 
was about to begin for the winter term. 

One night Mr. Thompson said to him, “ You see, 
Sam, school begins next Monday. Now I want you 
to take charge of the calves and sheep at the ‘ lower 
barn,’ and carry in the wood, and that’s all the work 
you’ll have to do. You can go to school every day, 
and I want you to study hard, for I want to make a 
scholar of you.” 

This meant, of course, that Sam was to learn as 
much as possible in the three or four months of the 
winter school, and then “just make the dust fly” on 
the farm the rest of the year. 

The “ lower barn ” stood in just such relation to 
Mr. Thompson’s house and the school-house, that 
Sam could attend to the calves and sheep on his way 
from school by walking a little more than twice the 
distance he would have to go if he went directly 
home first. It was therefore arranged with the 
teacher that Sam should always be excused about 
half an hour before the school was dismissed for the 
day. This enabled him to make the trip, attend to 
his charge, and get home and carry in the wood 
before dark. 

Presently the ground received a beautiful coat of 
snow, and the piercing days of winter came on. 


Why Didn't He Catch A Fox ? 


Soon Sam saw that the snow about the “ lower barn ” 
was traversed with little paths, and he discovered 
that they were made by rabbits. Before long he 
found a few tracks of some other kind. He got 
down on his hands and knees and examined them 
closely. Then he noticed that they led off in a long, 
graceful line across the meadow and into the woods 
beyond the school-house. Could they be a fox’s 
tracks ? If so, he was in a fair way to realize the 
greatest ambition of his life. 

Sam now remembered that, only a week or two 
before, Lem Hindman had said, “ I tracked a fox this 
morning from our barn, down through the pastur’ field, 
across Rinker’s clearin’, up over Greer’s hill, and 
into the rocks in Loudon’s hollow.” 

“ Why didn’t you dig him out ? ” some of the boys 
had asked. 

“ Dig him out ? ” said Lem. “ It’d take more men 
to dig a fox out of such a place than it took to raise 
Christy’s barn.” 

At anyrate, Sam confided to Lem his suspicions 
about the tracks, and, a day or two afterwards, Lem 
and Sam were both excused from school at the same 
hour. Whether Lem was required to go home earlier 
than usual no one knew better than the two boys 
themselves ; but before he went Sam had his opinion 















i 




HE DREW THE PICTURE OF A BOY DRAGGING A DEAD FOX, 


Why Didn't He Catch A Fox f 


on the indications at the “lower barn” expressed 
tersely thus : 

“ Them’s fox-tracks if ever ther’ was fox-tracks ! ” 

The situation of affairs having reached this condi- 
tion of reasonable certainty, Sam began to be nervous. 
He lay awake a long time at night and calculated how 
many useful things, such as powder, gun-caps, knives, 
balls, fish-hooks and the like he could buy with the 
price of a fox-skin, which, he had found out, was then 
worth about $2.50. He drew pictures of foxes on his 
slate at school. One day he drew the picture of a 
boy dragging a dead fox over the snow by a string 
tied around its neck. That evening he felt that the 
crisis was coming. He went, without a moment’s de- 
lay, from the school-house to the “ lower barn,” and 
examined the tracks for the hundredth time. 

Now, just a little distance west of the barn, there 
stood a large oak-tree which had a hole on its south 
side, near the ground, about large enough to receive 
a man’s fist. On the east side — that is, the side 
next the barn — a little higher than Sam’s head, 
was a large hole that had been cut at some time 
for the purpose of getting out a wood-chuck. Sam 
happened to look toward this tree and there, in the 
big hole on the east side, he saw a fox ! 

There could be no possible doubt about it. Such 


Why Didn't He Catch A Fox ? 


eyes as Sam’s couldn’t deceive a boy who was on the 
hunt for a fox. Nothing could be plainer than that 
it was a fox’s head. The ears stuck up exactly like a 
fox’s ears, and the body, of course, was back in the 
hollow of the tree. “ O, you cunning rascal ! ” said 
Sam “ don’t I wish I had a gun ! ” 

With this he raised the pitch-fork to his shoulder, 
and sighted along the handle, imitating what he 
would do if he only had a gun. When he thought 
the aim was good he shouted “bang! imagining it 
to be the discharge of the gun. At this sound the 
fox took fright and dodged back into the hollow of 
the tree. Then Sam ran, in breathless anxiety, and 
stopped up both holes to make his prisoner secure. 

Next he ran home, palpitating at every step, to get 
the old dog Pipe, and the axe. He was not a prac- 
ticed chopper, but he felt now that he could easily 
make a hole in one of the giant trees of California, 
to get out a fox. 

He would have entered into a contract to deliver 
the skin of that fox the next morning, or within 
two hours, for that matter ; and he was determined 
that nobody should know a word about it till he 
threw down his captive dead before the wondering 
eyes of the whole family. 

So he slipped quietly into the woodshed, picked up 





WHAT HE WOULD DO IF HE ONLY HAD A GUN. 








Why Didn't He Catch A Fox? 


the axe and spoke to Pipe in a whisper. Then he 
put a little piece of rope in his pocket to tie around 
the fox’s neck so that he could drag him home on the 
snow, as he had planned it in the picture on his slate, 
and back he hastened to the tree and prepared for a 
big triumph. 

“ Now,” thought he, “ if I only cut that lower hole 
a little larger I can put a stick up the hollow of the 
tree and punch the fellow out at the big hole, and 
then I’ve got him. Watch him now, Pipe, watch 
him ! ” And then he began to chop. 

No soldier ever pounded more earnestly at the gate 
of a walled city, or with a more ambitious heart-throb. 
He wondered if all oak-trees were so hard to chop. 
At last, just as the sky began to grow dusky with the 
approach of night, he had made the hole large 
enough. He took the stick in his hand and said : 
“ Now, catch him, Pipe, catch him ! ” and then he 
thrust it up the hollow of the tree. In an instant 
out came the fox with a great flurry and bustle, and 
sailed away over the meadow. Pipe made the best 
speed he could after it, plunging through drifts of 
snow that almost covered him out of sight ; but a 
heavy old farm-dog is a poor reliance in a fox-chase, 
especially if the fox flies, as this one did. 

For this fox was an owl ! 


Why Didn't He Catch A Fox ? 


Sam looked after in blank amazement as it sailed 
away with the most provoking ease. It seemed to 
him almost incredible that he should have been so 
deceived. Then he stuffed his hands in his breeches 
pockets and glanced around cautiously to see if any- 
body was looking, and, as he did so, he made a 
discovery. “ My word ! ” said he ; “ there isn’t a 
track within a hundred feet of this tree but what me 
and Pipe has made ! ” 

By this time he noticed that the calves and sheep 
were calling for their supper. As soon as he had fed 
them he trudged off slowly toward home, and put the 
axe in the woodshed more slyly than he had taken it 
out. Supper was over and he had to eat by himself 
in the kitchen. While he was eating his mother said : 

“ Sam, you have never been so late home before. 
What kept you ? ” 

“ O, nothing much,” said Sam. “ I wonder if 
the’s enough of wood in ? ” 

But she was not to be put off in that way, and she 
pressed the subject upon him till finally he did what 
he had firmly resolved not to do with any human 
being — took her into his confidence and told her all 
about it. 

Now it is a praiseworthy thing for a boy to make a 
confidant of his mother. His secrets are safer with 


Why Didn't He Catch A Fox ? 


her than with anyone else ; but, somehow, the story 
got out. 

The next morning, when Sam went to school, a few 
minutes late, he thought he could feel by the very 
atmosphere of the place that they all knew it. He 
had scarcely been seated five minutes when one of 
the boys held up a copy of McGuffey’s spelling-book 



THIS IS A FOX! 


and, pointing to the picture of an owl in it, whispered 
to Sam, from behind his hand, that it was a fox. 
The books that day all seemed to be full of fresh 
information about owls. Even the little toddlers in 
the first reader drawled out the sentence : “ A brown 
owl sat all day on a beam in the barn,” and then the 



Why Didn't He Catch A Fox 9 


boys all looked at Sam. He wished in his heart that 
owls would always sit on beams and not get into 
holes in old hollow trees to bother boys. At recess 
and at noon they teased him without mercy, and, as 
he once afterwards expressed it, made life almost a 
burden to him. 

Now Sam was not one of your suspicious fellows, 
and he wasn’t apt to think harm of anybody. Ac- 
cordingly he intimated to his mother that evening that 
he couldn’t understand how the rest of the family 
and the boys at school came to know about his 
exploit of the evening before. She didn’t furnish any 
satisfactory explanation, but she sympathized with 
him and did what she could to help him to make the 
best out of a really very disagreeable situation. 

“ Why,” she said, “ did you never think, Sam, that 
if there had happened to be a wild-cat in the tree 
instead of an owl, it might have killed the dog and 
then pounced on you? Then nobody knows what 
might have happened. Why, there isn’t a dog in the 
whole neighborhood that could kill a wild-cat ! ” 

In fact, she made such a terrible picture out of the 
possibilities of the case, that he almost persuaded 
himself that he was glad the tree contained nothing 
but a harmless owl. 

But still he did want to catch a fox. 


ABOUT HATS. 


OU may think, boys, this is a very trivial sub- 



A ject j but I will try to show you that nothing 
is more significant of a boy’s politeness or impolite- 
ness than the way he conducts himself with reference 
to his hat. 

Of course customs differ very much in different 
countries, and even in different parts of our own 
country ; but it seems to me that there are some lit- 
tle forms of courtesy which would be almost instinct- 
ive with every true gentleman, irrespective of coun- 
try. 

The average boy will remove his hat and make as 
graceful a bow as he knows how to make, when he 
meets a pretty girl of his acquaintance either in the 
street or car ; but how many boys will perform the 


About Hats . 


same act of politeness should they happen to meet 
their own mother or sister ? How many will do it 



THE WAY HE PASSES THE PRETTY GIRL. 


when they encounter an elderly aunt or their sister’s 
middle-aged dress-maker ? And yet the pleasure of 



About Hats. 


receiving an act of courtesy is quite as great to any 
one of these as it is to the pretty girl aforesaid, and 
perhaps much more so on account of its rarity. 

In removing the hat take it entirely off. There are 
some who merely touch it, scarcely moving it at all. 
But “ whatever is worth doing at all is worth doing 
well ” ; and I could tell you of a boy of my acquaint- 
ance ( no ! a boy no longer, but the good habit was 
formed in boyhood and still continues in the prime 
of manhood,) who removes his hat in such a thorough 
manner when he sees a lady friend that it is really a 
pleasure to meet him. 

I could also mention a family of Quakers who live 
in our neighborhood. There are five sons in this 
family and all are models of politeness with regard to 
hats, either in street or car. Perhaps you have heard 
that Quakers have scruples about making obeisance 
to any human being. There was an old Philadelphia 
Friend who refused to remove his hat in court and 
the judge ordered one of the officers of the court to 
take it off for him ; and, of course, being a “ non-re- 
sistant ” he could make no objections to having this 
act performed for him. 

As a general thing, however, the Quakers of the 
present day are very polite in this regard. They seem 
to have an instinctive feeling which is stronger than 


About Hats. 


the stringent code of their meeting-house. As a 
Philadelphian I have known quite a number of them, 
and I will say that, as a rule, they are exceptionally 
polite in regard to their hats. 

In the City of Brotherly Love, and I suppose in 
most large cities, it is the custom for the gentleman 
to remove his hat if the friend with whom he is walk- 
ing meets a lady acquaintance who bows to the latter. 
Of course this gives the un-introduced gentleman no 
right to repeat the act should he happen to meet the 
lady when his friend is no longer with him. I know 
a Philadelphia boy who happened to belong to a 
corps of civil engineers — he was “ second rod-man,” 
I think, — stationed in a small country town in the 
west central part of Pennsylvania ; and he had been 
well-drilled at home in the etiquette of the hat and 
carried all his good habits with him. One day, while 
walking with the “first rod-man,” they met a young 
girl who bowed to the latter. Our boy, remembering 
his home lessons, removed his hat politely and passed 
on with his friend. Some time afterwards he hap- 
pened to hear that the girl wondered what right he 
had to be taking off his hat to her ! 

Therefore it is well to inform one’s self of the cus- 
toms of a place ; for what is politeness in one place 
may be considered rudeness in another, though there 


About Hats. 


are some things which would be unmistakably rude 
in any place. One of these is, keeping your hat on 
in the house while talking to any lady. Can you im- 
agine Sir Philip Sidney talking to his sister in the 
beautiful house at Penshurst with his hat on ? 

Never kiss your mother good-by with your hat on ; 
and extend the same courtesy towards sister, cousin, 
or any lady whom you may have the privilege of kiss- 
ing. Boys, you do not know how the little act of 
keeping the hat on may detract from the pleasure of 
the morning kiss. You cannot imagine how the chiv- 
alrous habit of keeping it in hand until the last good- 
by is spoken may linger in the heart of mother, 
cousin, or sister as a pleasant memory all through a 
day of toil and care. 

If you are in a store or office never keep your hat 
on while attending to a lady. Perhaps you will be 
astonished at my supposing such a thing possible, 
but that such things are possible I know from my 
own observation. I have remembrance of a man (I 
will not say gentleman.) who lost me for a customer, 
chiefly because he kept his hat on while exhibiting to 
me some of his musical instruments. 

There may be reasons why keeping the hat on 
might be necessary, even under circumstances where 
politeness might otherwise lead to its removal. I can 


About Hats. 



the store necessitates your keeping it on, a little apol- 
ogy to that effect would set you right in the eyes of 
any sensible girl or woman. 


hardly think that it is done so often out of mere boor- 
ishness or ignorance. If it does so happen that a 
cold in your head, or weak eyes, or a stray draught in 


THE WAY HE PASSES HIS MOTHER. 


About Hats. 


When a gentleman gives his place to a lady in the 
street car and she happens to thank him for it, 
( which I am sorry to say she does not always do,) he 
lifts his hat to her to show that it has been a pleas- 
ure to him to make her comfortable as well as to 
mark the fact that her politeness in thanking him has 
been appreciated. If I were talking to the girls now, 
I should tell them that in no case should this little 
act of courtesy on his part be construed into an initi- 
atory step towards an acquaintance. 

Every girl who has brothers, and every teacher 
who has boys for scholars, should try to keep them up 
to the mark in regard to hats. I have had some 
amusing experiences with my Sunday-school scholars 
in this regard. I know it is not generally considered 
a matter worthy of Sunday- school consideration ; 
but, in my mind, it is significant of so much that I try 
to give my “ infants ” an early drilling. 

Two brothers, who were once in my class, learnt 
the lesson very quickly and seemed to enjoy its prac- 
tice exceedingly. They were very poor boys, their 
father and mother both intemperate I believe. They 
had had little or no home instruction with regard to 
politeness, nor, I am afraid, in regard to other more 
important matters ; but they soon became celebrated 
all over the neighborhood for the manner in which 


About Hats. 


they removed their hats at the approach of a lady, or 
even a gentleman whom they might happen to know. 



It was done with so much vim , as if they really en- 
joyed it, and no obstacle was permitted to interfere 
with this act of gallantry. If laden with baskets or 



About Hats . 


bundles, down they would be set upon the ground 
until the bow and accompanying grin ( not a part of 
the lesson ) had been accomplished. Should they be 
too far off to have their courtesy appreciated, they 
would wait until the one to whom they were about to 
bow had come up within bowing distance. Some- 
times they would go considerably out of their way 
for the pleasure of the performance. 

The majority of small boys require a much longer 
drilling. Sometimes, when I meet them on week- 
days, I have to remind them by putting my hand up 
to my own head. If that is not enough, I have occa- 
sionally gone so far as to remove their hats for them 
as the court-officer did for the Quaker gentleman. 

The Father of our Country (of whom you have no 
doubt heard ere this ) was walking one day with a friend 
when they met a colored gentleman who saluted the 
General, removing his hat to him politely. The Gen- 
eral returned the bow, removing his hat in return. 
The friend expressed some surprise at this after they 
had passed, but Washington’s answer, no doubt, made 
him feel a little ashamed : 

“ Do you think I am going to allow him to excel 
me in politeness ? ” 
















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